What No One Deserves
by Gen Masho Rajura
Summary: CHAPTER 19 As he grows up, Sephiroth learns that there are some things no one deserves.
1. A Rude Awakening

Disclaimer: They aren't mine! Really! They're Square's. All these characters are Square's.   
  
A/N: Rated PG-13 for some language and whatever's coming up in later chapters. Not very exciting or anything yet, but it will be. Promise!  
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"Sephiroth!"  
  
The silver-haired little boy, still rolled up in a cozy cocoon of blankets in his bed and barely awake, cringed at the sound of that awful voice. He heard the angry, determined footsteps clomping up the wooden stairs, and his name was called again.  
  
"Sephiroth! Wake up!"  
  
He quickly stuffed his face beneath his pillow when he caught a glimpse of that thick black hair at the top of the stairs. Squeezing his Mako-green eyes shut, he prayed with every last ounce of energy in his wiry body that that man would just stop calling him and go away. He didn't know of anyone specific to pray to, so he just begged whoever was listening to send him away, strike him dead with lightning, whatever they saw fit, just so long as he left him alone.  
  
Hojo yanked the pillow away from Sephiroth and thrust his ugly face within inches of the boy's perfect little nose. "Get out of bed, you lazy child!" he barked, prying the blankets from the death-grip his son held on them. "Thanks to you, we're going to be late to the lab! Now get going!"   
  
"So much for the prayer…" Sephiroth murmured.  
  
"What was that?!" Hojo snapped, stepping back from the bed to allow the boy to get out of it.  
  
"Nothing." Sephiroth stretched and rolled to the side, planting his bare--and now freezing--feet on the floor. He took a deep breath and exhaled sharply.  
  
"Quit your stalling, Sephiroth. I will be waiting for you downstairs. You have five minutes," Hojo commanded, placing great emphasis on the number. When the boy didn't respond, he reached down and clamped his hand under his chin, jerking his head up and forcing those green orbs to look into his muddy brown ones. "Did you hear me?"   
  
Sephiroth stiffly bobbed his head, unable to respond fully because of Hojo's surprisingly strong grasp. Hojo sneered and let go, turning sharply on his heel and heading for the stairs. He paused at the top stair for a moment, his back to his son, before declaring, "You now have three minutes. Hurry, or I will see to it that you pay for your tardiness at the lab." His voice was cold, flat, and unfeeling.   
  
Sephiroth was on his feet before the scientist disappeared downstairs. He knew Hojo meant what he said. The man spoke no threats; only gruesome promises when his demands weren't immediately met to the degree of perfection he expected. And going to that hellhole laboratory was unbearable enough as it was.   
  
He hastily dressed, wriggling out of his flannel pajama bottoms and pulling on a pair of blue jeans and a black tank top. Moving to his dresser, he grabbed a comb and began running it through his shoulder-length silver hair, taking just enough time to tease the bangs that just brushed his cheekbones. Not that it mattered what he looked like. Everyone could have given a shit less about that.   
  
Catching himself in mid-stroke staring vacantly at his hollow expression in the mirror, he slammed the comb back to the dresser and walked away. He was only 9, too young to express much in the way of vanity. Even if he wanted to, he didn't think he could stare at himself in the mirror for long. The tortured face that gazed back at him scared him too much.  
  
Sephiroth jammed his feet into his sneakers and tramped downstairs, where Hojo was already standing at the door, his arms folded across his narrow chest, his foot impatiently rattling against the floor. He said nothing as he stepped outside, more or less shoving Sephiroth out ahead of him.  
  
Their house was on Midgar's upper plate, conveniently located mere blocks from Hojo's beloved laboratory. It was an old, Spartan thing, barely affording them the comforts one would normally associate with a house, the complete opposite of pretty much every other residence on the plate. It was sturdy. But it was also ugly. And neither of them spent much time in it.   
  
They walked in silence, their footsteps inaudible amidst the cacophony of car engines, machinery, and chatty residents. A gritty gray haze choked the air, dulling the brilliant sunrise into a pale flush of dirty yellow light. Shinra Headquarters towered in the center of the industrial conglomerate, its hulk burying the smog-infested city in its threatening shadow.  
  
Hojo strode through the milling throngs of early-morning workers and shoppers, his steps deliberately brisk. Sephiroth had fallen behind as soon as they'd started walking, but it was not out of any inability to keep up. He didn't like people following him; especially not Hojo. He didn't trust the wicked thoughts that he knew went through the scientist's brain whenever he fixed those beady eyes on him. And when Sephiroth couldn't return that gaze, who knows how psychotic his ideas got. No. He avoided walking ahead of him at all costs. Not far behind him, but not ahead of him.  
  
(I should run away.) Sephiroth thought as he solemnly followed his father toward the HQ. (I should have run away a long time ago. I…I hate him. I don't have to do this. Why don't I run from him?)  
  
"You know you wouldn't get very far." Hojo's voice somehow broke through the din and shattered the boy's musings. "I would send SOLDIERs after you. They would hunt you down like a rotten little rodent and bring you back to me. And I would make you dearly regret your stupidity."  
  
Sephiroth growled and scuffed a pebble at the scientist. His growl became animalistic when the rock bounced off the back of Hojo's left shoe. (No wonder my prayer didn't work before. He's guarded by the devil himself.) He tried again. It hit his right shoe. (And how does he always do that? He knows whenever I'm thinking about him. He knows whenever I try and plan something. How?!)  
  
"Don't bother wondering, Sephiroth." Hojo stopped, as they were now at Shinra's doors. "You wouldn't understand."   
  
"Why?" Sephiroth queried, reluctantly raising his face to look at his father.   
  
"Shut up," Hojo snapped. "Just go inside. We have work to do, and not enough time to do it, thanks to you."  
  
The Mako-green eyes lingered on that wretched face a moment longer, bright with a sudden surge of youthful defiance. His lips parted, and he meant to declare that he wouldn't go any further, but he was quickly silenced by a sudden, burning slap from Hojo. "Go, damn it! I've had enough of your delays!"  
  
His cheek now bearing a distinct, stinging red handprint, Sephiroth sullenly complied. He trudged through the sliding glass doors, his throat tight with tears he refused to shed and his heart knotted with the knowledge of what he was going to have to face.   
  
Nearly every day of his young life he had come to this building, and it was always the same. Hojo entered the Shinra Building. But Sephiroth…didn't. No. He walked straight into hell. 


	2. Who Would Care?

Disclaimer: Cynthia is mine. The rest of the characters are not.  
  
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The elevator ride to the lab was uneventful and dreadfully quiet. Hojo stood on one side, casually inspecting his glasses. Sephiroth was on the opposite side, his forehead pressed against the glass wall, watching as Midgar faded to a dappled iron-gray shadow below.  
  
He raised a hand to his reddened cheek and sighed. (I wish this glass wasn't so thick. Then I could jump.)  
  
"It wouldn't do you any good."  
  
Sephiroth mashed his nose into the glass and squinted into the smog. "Yes, it would," he quietly insisted. "I'd be dead." (And far away from you.)  
  
"That fall wouldn't kill you. You'd just wish it had." Hojo settled his glasses back on his nose.  
  
The boy glanced at his father over his shoulder. "Would I sprout wings on the way down or something?"  
  
The scientist cleared the short distance between them in one stride, roughly grabbing Sephiroth by the arm and whirling the child around to face him. "Don't be smart with me, Sephiroth," he hissed. "I know more about you than you know about yourself. And that fall wouldn't kill you."  
  
At that moment, the elevator dinged, and the doors whirred open. Dragging Sephiroth behind him, Hojo headed into the cold, dimly-lit laboratory, moving straight toward the back. A handful of assistants greeted Hojo as he passed, but he didn't so much as look their way. And none of them paid any attention to the pale, wide-eyed boy he was hauling.  
  
As they neared Hojo's private station, a pretty, twenty-something brunette clad in an immaculate white lab coat approached them. "Excuse me," she said, a sweet smile quirking the corners of her rose-colored lips. "Professor Hojo?"  
  
Without stopping, Hojo replied with a brusque, "Yes?"  
  
The woman matched his angered strides as best she could as she introduced herself. "I'm Cynthia Harrow. I was assigned to assist you today. Professor Hojo?"  
  
"Yes, yes, I heard you, Miss Harrow." He waved his free hand at his desk. "There's a folder there outlining today's procedures. Review it and prepare as necessary. We will begin in ten minutes." Hojo wrenched Sephiroth into a small, windowless room on the back wall and kicked the door shut behind him.  
  
Baffled by what had just occurred, Cynthia did as she was told, selecting a currently dated folder from the paper clutter on Hojo's desk and flipping it open. She scanned the outline, her aquamarine eyes widening with every word she read.  
  
"Good grief!" she gasped, slowly raising a slender hand to her mouth. "These drugs…they're lethal! And these amounts of Mako! What is Professor Hojo planning on doing with them?" She paused, looking toward the back room, which, she noted, was oddly silent. "My God…he's not planning on using them on that child that was with him…is he? That's…"  
  
"NO!"  
  
The sudden shrill cry startled her. It came from the room Hojo was in. It was the little boy.  
  
Cynthia heard Hojo bark something in reply, but the room's walls were well-insulated, and she couldn't make out his words. The boy protested again. There was silence. Then something thudded against the wall. More silence.  
  
She hesitantly edged a step closer, curious as to just what was going on, yet feeling that somehow, she didn't want to know. It obviously wasn't any of her business; she was just a new lab assistant, and Hojo was a brilliant, if not slightly eccentric, scientific genius.  
  
But that child…surely that couldn't be Hojo's child? She'd caught a fleeting glimpse of him; a handsome little boy he was, with strange, but beautiful, silver hair and fiercely green eyes that glowed with the taint of Mako. He'd looked so frightened, but she supposed a child of such an age being brought to a scientific laboratory in such a crude fashion would naturally feel that way.  
  
The boy cried out again. This time, Cynthia could tell, it wasn't in protest. It was in pain.   
  
Cynthia lightly tossed the open folder back on the desk and started for the room. It certainly wasn't her place to interfere with a renowned scientist's actions, but at the same time, whatever he was doing to that child was hurting him, and she couldn't stand by and not do anything about it.  
  
She had gotten within three feet of the door when it swung open. Hojo stood in the doorway, an odd little smirk on his mouth that instantly curled into a dour scowl when he saw her. "And what is the problem?" he demanded. "Have you made the preparations?"  
  
"No, I…I haven't," she said, a guilty flush rising in her cheeks. "But I…heard the boy…and…he sounded hurt, so I…"  
  
"You disobeyed me and delayed the day's experiments even further," Hojo interrupted.   
  
"I didn't mean to," Cynthia feebly replied, the bluster over hearing the boy's cries now long gone. "I just thought…the boy was…"  
  
"He's fine." The scientist glanced to the side. "Sephiroth! Hurry up! We haven't got all day!"  
  
Cynthia vaguely heard a muffled response, and a few seconds later, the boy…Sephiroth…appeared in the doorway. His Mako eyes slowly searched their way up to her face, and she could see unshed crystalline tears glistening against the emerald glow. An ugly blue welt marred his right cheekbone, blatantly visible beneath the disheveled silver locks that curtained his face.  
  
He held her gaze for a long, stifling moment--a gaze which she found eerily entrancing--before a brisk cuff to the back of his head brought those green orbs to Hojo's stern face. A barely discernable nod at the boy's feet caught Cynthia's attention, and as Sephiroth followed the scientist's direction, trying to figure out what was wrong, Cynthia did as well. One of the child's pant legs was bunched several inches above the top of his shoe, revealing a thin rivulet of blood trickling down the inside of his leg. Sephiroth hastily coaxed the denim back into place.  
  
Cynthia looked to Hojo, a million questions shadowing her face.  
  
Hojo's eyes narrowed into dark slits behind his glasses as he returned her questioning stare. "Don't ask. It's none of your business." He shoved Sephiroth forward, pointing toward the testing area. The boy obediently trudged away, his gait slow and awkward.  
  
Maybe she was hearing things, but Cynthia thought she heard him whimper.  
  
(Why does he do that to me?) Sephiroth thought as he stiffly made his way to the stainless steel examination table. (Every time…what have I ever done to deserve this? And why didn't she stop him? Why haven't any of the assistants stopped him? Doesn't anyone care about me?)  
  
Mustering up what strength was left in his little body, Sephiroth hoisted himself onto the table, gingerly easing into a prostrate position, knowing he'd be told to anyway. He fixed his forlorn gaze on the bland white ceiling and took a long, trembling breath. (Of course no one cares about me. When my own father doesn't, why should anyone else?)  
  
Hojo was at his side a moment later, Cynthia not far behind. Sephiroth didn't look at either of them. He remained silent as the assistant secured his wrists and ankles to the table with harsh metal shackles. She said something to him, but he chose not to hear it. Someone who stood by while a father abused his son didn't deserve to be listened to.   
  
"Well, since you neglected to ready the materials I asked you to, we'll just have to settle for Mako testing," Hojo said to Cynthia, who just pursed her lips and looked at the floor. "I have one thousand grams of concentrated Mako prepared already, so I'll start with that. Now go to Laboratory Supply and bring me three thousand grams of hyper-concentrated Mako."   
  
Thinking perhaps Hojo meant to kill the boy, Cynthia remained a moment, gazing wistfully at that silver hair, those impossibly green eyes…and the stoic set of his jaw. Mentally praying for his young soul, she turned away, setting off for the supplies.  
  
Meanwhile, Hojo had filled a syringe with the thick green liquid Mako, and was standing over his son, a wicked sheen passing over his brown eyes as he regarded his son's ashen countenance. "Aren't you in luck today, Sephiroth?" he chuckled deviously. "No drugs, only pure, undiluted Mako."  
  
Sephiroth turned his head to the side. "Who cares?" he replied. "Everything you do to me hurts."  
  
"Of course it does, boy. That's exactly the way I want it." The scientist snatched a handful of the child's platinum hair and jerked his head straight. "I told you I'd make you pay for your tardiness. I never had any intention of using drugs, because I know how excruciating Mako treatments are for you. If it were up to me, that's all I'd give you." Without waiting for the boy to respond, he drove the needle into his arm, forcing every last drop of the liquid into his body within a matter of seconds--much faster than was necessary, or even healthy.  
  
Sephiroth felt the Mako flood through every fiber of his body, searing his veins, his blood, his muscles. Intense fire crushed his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and the life from his heart. White-hot pain exploded in his head, robbing him of sight and thought.  
  
Hojo calmly watched as the Mako instantly took hold, a slow, sadistic smile melting onto his sinister face as the boy convulsed, his lean frame snapping rigid against the steel table. Sephiroth's head whipped from side to side; a series of desperate, agonized cries escaped his throat. His chest heaved. The already sparse color in his skin drained even more, turning it the sickly pallor of death.  
  
(That's right.) Hojo urged him, sneaking a brief check of the wall clock. (Writhe in hell, child. Let the Mako eat you alive. Jenova will bring you back. Jenova always brings you back.)  
  
Sephiroth gagged; blood spilled from his mouth. His widened emerald eyes blazed with a wild, unnaturally fierce sheen. His pupils were invisible in the glow.  
  
(C'mon! Let it take you! Sephiroth!!) Hojo glowered at his son, the smile now scarcely visible on his thin lips.   
  
It was as if a switch had been flicked. Sephiroth's body went slack. His screams ceased, and his head lolled to the side. His fiery eyes were dimmed and unfocused.   
  
"Excellent." Hojo pressed his fingers to the side of the boy's neck. No pulse. He was dead.   
  
A minute passed. Then two. The scientist looked at the clock again, watching the second hand plod toward the twelve. …Three minutes. He looked back at his son.  
  
Sephiroth twitched. Gasping for breath, he weakly turned his head to look up at Hojo. Vertigo seized him, and he closed his eyes. He heard his father cackle triumphantly.  
  
(Is that death…?) Sephiroth pondered. (No. When someone's dead, they're dead. And this happens all the time. A person only dies once. But no one will tell me what it is I feel when he injects me with all that Mako. All I know is horrible pain…then nothing…then pain again. And then he laughs. Every time he hurts me, he laughs. Why is that funny? Why is my pain so funny to him?)  
  
"Professor Hojo, I have the hyper-concentrated Mako." Cynthia's voice pierced his semi-conscious reverie. He heard her light footsteps, and the glass vials clinking together. "Three thousand grams."  
  
Sephiroth sobbed. He didn't care if Hojo heard him. He was cold. His cheek hurt. The inside of his mouth tasted bitter and metallic. His body still ached from Hojo's punishment, and he still felt the blood that had snaked its way down his thighs from that so-called discipline.   
  
He didn't understand the reasons for any of it. But he did understand that it wasn't fair. He didn't like it, nor did he deserve it. So that could only mean one thing.  
  
Everyone just hated him. 


	3. Desperation

Disclaimer: Again, I don't own these characters and have no intention of making any money off of them or this fic.

A/N: Writer's block is evil…_

Well, here's chapter three. It took me a long time and many tries to write this one, and I'm still not totally happy with it. Argh…I hope you like it anyway. 

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["But I…heard the boy…and…he sounded hurt, so I…"]

He'd heard those words five years ago, yet he still recalled them in his mind as distinctly as if they'd been spoken yesterday. Nothing remarkable; if any of the assistants ever spoke up, it was something along those lines. The words had never changed his treatment. Hojo would just laugh, dismiss their words, and abuse him as usual, and the assistants were too cowed by him to turn their words into actions. 

Yet for some reason, after this particular woman had uttered those words, he couldn't get them out of his head. She had almost sounded as though she'd actually do something.

Almost.

Sephiroth, now fourteen, stood in front of his mirror, forcing himself to stare back into the haunted verdant orbs of his reflection. He had decided long ago to avoid looking at that reflection for too great a time because it terrified him, but today was different. He had to gaze at that pale, somber façade, drained of its color by years of pain, fear, and hopelessness. He had to search deep into those emerald eyes, which had never held the vibrant gleam of youth, lit only by a synthetic, neon sheen.

Last night, as he had lain wide awake in bed, the lingering sting of Mako in his blood refusing to let him rest, he had made a vow to himself. A vow that required great conviction…a vow that would end Hojo's torture. And this morning, he needed to reassure himself of what had to be stopped.

Pulling his waist-length platinum hair into a ponytail and securing it at the nape of his neck with a short strip of black ribbon, he cast one final glance at the piercing Mako-bright eyes before heading downstairs, where Hojo was just rising from the kitchen table, a thin brown envelope in his hand.

"Ah, Sephiroth! You're up early!" he chuckled. "Excellent." He waved the envelope at him. "I just received word I was to increase your Mako dosage today. Twelve thousand hyper-concentrated grams. How does that sound, hmm?"

Sephiroth, who'd gone through a miraculous growth spurt the past year and now stood more than a head taller than his father, placidly looked down at him, his only response silence.

"Nothing to say, eh?" Hojo shook his head and started for the door. "I can tell you've got something on your mind, Sephiroth," he said as the teenager soberly followed him. "But whatever it is you're planning, don't bother with it. You already know you can't get away from me or the Shinra."

"Can't I?" he replied, stepping outside after the scientist. "You'll die someday, and Shinra won't last forever."

Hojo said nothing, but Sephiroth could see a half-smile crook the corner of his mouth.

Thanks to Sephiroth's early rising, they arrived at the Shinra Building half an hour early. The lab was relatively quiet, with less than half a dozen workers puttering at this and that, ignoring the two of them and focusing their half-hearted attention into their projects in a sad attempt at looking busy. 

Hojo tossed the envelope onto his desk and motioned toward the back room. "Go ahead," he said, "I have to prepare the Mako. I'll be there in a moment."

Sephiroth remained where he was, standing several paces behind his father, his eyes trained on the back of the scientist's greasy head. 

When he didn't hear his son obeying him, Hojo turned, meeting a pair of intense Mako eyes glaring at him from a few feet away. "What are you waiting for, Sephiroth? Just because you're bigger than me doesn't mean you can disobey me. Go!"

"No."

Hojo's ink-dark eyes took an edge of steel when he heard his son's uncharacteristic defiance. "What?" He took a step forward.

Setting his jaw, Sephiroth slowly shook his head. "I said…no." 

"Since when were you given a choice in the matter?" Hojo scowled. "I didn't ask you to go, Sephiroth. I TOLD you to go." Another step forward. "Defying me will only bring you more pain, Sephiroth, you know that. You also know I have no qualms about giving you that additional pain."

Sephiroth swallowed hard and let his eyes wander over Hojo's shoulder. "I do," he confirmed. "Which is why…I can't let you do this to me anymore." He started to walk past Hojo, who latched onto his wrist as he passed. 

"I don't know what you think you're going to get away with, boy," the scientist admonished him in a chill voice. "I've told you time and again you can't escape this, and I don't know what's possessed you to think you can defy the odds and leave. Sephiroth!" He jerked his arm backward, halting the teenager in his tracks. "You're only making this worse for yourself, but if that's how you want it, then by all means, follow through with your stupid plan. When the SOLDIERs drag your worthless hide back here, I will punish you so severely that you won't even remember your name."

"I don't think so." Sephiroth wrenched his arm free and continued walking. "I'm not running away." He stopped in front of a tray laden with brilliant stainless steel surgical implements. He hastily scanned the instruments before selecting two of them and turning to face his father. "I could run to the ends of the earth and not get away from your cruelty," he said. "I know that. So I'm not planning on running away from you. I'm going to end this here." 

Before the scientist could say anything or sway his resolve, Sephiroth strode forward, locking his Mako eyes with Hojo's. A brief flash of confusion sparked in his mind when Hojo, who could clearly see what he had in his hands, didn't so much as flinch as he bore down on him. But that didn't matter. Right now, he didn't give a damn what Hojo had in mind. It didn't even phase him when the scientist offered him a huge, maniacal grin.

Sephiroth wordlessly buried a scalpel deep in Hojo's chest.

Hojo laughed. Blood spouted from the wound, staining his lab coat with a gruesome crimson blossom. He looked down at what little of the instrument protruded from his chest. He laughed even harder.

But Sephiroth didn't notice. For as soon as he'd stabbed the scientist, he'd taken the other tool he had, also a scalpel, and gashed it across his wrists. The sudden shock of pain brought tears to his eyes, and when he saw the profuse flood of scarlet spilling down his bare arms, those hot, stinging droplets fell. 

This was what he wanted. He wanted to be rid of Hojo and his brutality, and as far as his distraught mind could see, this was the only way to accomplish that. It didn't matter what happened after he died. Heaven, hell, whatever other realm any of the religious factions named, he didn't care. So long as his bastard of a father wasn't there with him.

(One way or another this'll work. As long as at least one of us dies…I won't have to be at his mercy any more.) He dropped to his knees, still weakly clutching the bloody knife. (Why does this scare me so much, though? After all the hurt he's put me through, why does death still scare me? Death is freedom…isn't it?) 

Hojo's demented laughter pierced his blurry consciousness. (He still laughs?! He could die…and he laughs? Damn him, anyway! Here I am…terrified of the only thing that will take me away from him…and he's laughing…!) He focused his dimming emerald eyes on the tool in his trembling hand. (I…I won't listen to him…laughing…anymore…) 

Sephiroth squeezed his eyes shut and raised the scalpel. (Whoever's listening to me now…save me…) Tears spilling down his blanched cheeks, he drove the blade into his heart. 

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No, Sephiroth…don't go to sleep on me now…you're not done yet.

You hear me? Don't sleep! Sephiroth! Wake up!

…up! Se…roth…!

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"Well, well, that was some sort of trick, wasn't it, boy?"

Sephiroth's Mako eyes shot open at the sound of his father's voice. A strangled cry escaped his throat when he saw Hojo's weasel-like face leering down at him. "Damn you!" he screamed, trying to sit up only to find that he had somehow been secured to the examination table. "Damn you! Damn you to all the hells! Don't you die? Why don't you die?! Why didn't I die? Why can't I get away from you, you bastard?!" More burning tears trickled from his eyes, acidic against his skin.

The scientist glanced down at the bloodstain on his coat before leaning even closer to Sephiroth, his lips curling into a canine snarl. "That was a nice try, Sephiroth," he hissed. "But it never seems to settle in that worthless brain of yours that none of your ideas will ever work. You thought you'd kill me…or yourself…and be rid of me, is that it? You waste your time…and mine, with these fantasies. Now listen to me, Sephiroth, and listen to me well." He paused for effect, bringing one of his hands into view of that pair of despairing green orbs. It was vividly smudged with blood. "See this? This…is my blood." He pressed his other hand against Sephiroth's chest, drawing some of the precious fluid onto his fingers. "And this is your blood. Our blood is one and the same. That is why…" He struck his son across the face, leaving a vivid, blood-spattered handprint on his pallid skin. "…you will never, EVER be rid of me. Not in life, and never in death. Do you understand that?!"

The heartbroken wails that wracked Sephiroth's slender body were the only reply he could manage. (Does no one hear my pleas? Why am I so hated and uncared-for? The heavens won't even let me escape this pain! What have I ever done? Am I cursed?)

He felt a needle prick his arm, and Mako began to inundate his veins. Before his conscious thoughts waned away completely, he made another vow to himself, one that he wouldn't allow anyone…especially Hojo…to cause to fail this time. 

(I couldn't kill him or myself. I broke my own vow. But not this one.) His heart, which had been pierced and should have already been stopped cold, faltered. 

(No more. He will not defeat me. Hojo will not see fear in my eyes anymore. But so help me…I will see fear in his.)


	4. Happy Birthday

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.   
  
A/N: *bows humbly* Thank you for the reviews! They are much appreciated, and I look forward to more. *bows again*   
  
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(Today was my birthday.)  
  
Sephiroth lay quietly on his bed, staring vacantly at the shadowed wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. His vision blurred occasionally, glossing over with tears whenever a sudden wave of white-hot Mako pain rippled through his muscles.   
  
(My sixteenth birthday.)  
  
It was late in the evening; eight or nine o'clock, by his estimate. His room was illumined by a single floor lamp that stood at his bedside, casting a subtle white glow over most of the small area. He still heard the throaty hum of distant machinery, and somewhere in the street below his room, a car idled. Hojo was downstairs, no doubt scribbling notes about the day's experiments and devising more ways to torture his son.  
  
(Well, happy birthday to me.)  
  
Sephiroth closed his eyes and folded his hands over his chest, feeling the slow, gentle heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. (Sixteen years of Mako; it's a wonder this heart even beats anymore.) He clenched one of his hands into a loose fist. (Sometimes…I wish it didn't.)  
  
"Sephiroth! Get down here!"  
  
(Like now.) Sighing noisily, Sephiroth levered himself into a sitting position, pausing momentarily as a flash of fire stung his body. "Ah…bastard," he hissed under his breath, rising from the mattress. "You just won't quit, will you?"  
  
"Sephiroth!! Stop calling me names and get down here!"  
  
(He's not guarded by the devil, he IS the devil.) he thought wryly, starting for the stairs. "I'm coming," he replied. He took slow, deliberate steps, being careful not to stumble as a sharp pressure swelled in his head, no doubt the lingering Mako protesting his movement. Locking his slender fingers around the railing, he headed downstairs, mustering all of his willpower to keep from passing out and tumbling to the floor below.   
  
Hojo was seated at the kitchen table, a mass of papers, folders, and other paraphernalia spread before him. He looked up at his son as the teenager trod wearily down the wood stairs, his tired, but gleaming emerald eyes practically fluorescent in the gray darkness that was softened only by the light of an old, failing desk lamp.   
  
"What is it?" Sephiroth queried, leaning back against the nearby wall. He was exhausted and in a fair deal of pain, but that was as far as he would display it in front of Hojo.   
  
The scientist rose, adjusting the glasses on his narrow nose. "Trying to play a hero now, are you?" he chuckled, noticing Sephiroth's efforts to stifle his discomfort. "You told yourself you wouldn't show me any of your pain and fear, no matter what it took."  
  
"What of it?" Sephiroth spat. "You've gotten enough enjoyment out of my torment, and I decided you didn't deserve to anymore. Not that you ever did. You don't deserve any enjoyment."  
  
"If that's the case, then neither do you," Hojo answered coolly. "Remember what I told you." He tapped a sheaf of papers that was on top of the mess on the table, a deadly serious cast settling onto his face. "You're joining SOLDIER," he solemnly announced after a long pause.  
"Tomorrow."  
  
Sephiroth's knees threatened to give way, and he was thankful he was supported by the wall. "Joining…SOLDIER?" (Now I know the whole universe hates me.) "Why?"   
  
"That's none of your business. I've decided you'll join SOLDIER, and that is that. You are in no place to argue with me."  
  
"No place to argue? But…you just decided what was to be done with my life." Sephiroth shakily brushed a few stray strands of hair away from his face. (Damn it…I'm shaking. Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it! He is NOT seeing my fear. He cannot. Stop it!) he berated himself.  
  
"Of course I did," the scientist stated matter-of-factly. "I think you've learned by now your life isn't yours to do with as you please. It never has been."  
  
"But I've never even used a sword," Sephiroth protested, striving to keep the tears out of his voice.   
  
"You'll learn. All those other buffoons do." Hojo waggled his hand at the staircase. "Now go to bed."  
  
Since he hadn't wanted to come down here in the first place, Sephiroth had no problem complying. He had to leave before he really did break down and cry. Without another word to his father, he struggled back upstairs and collapsed onto his bed.  
  
(SOLDIER? It's not enough that I'm a cursed Mako guinea pig, now I have to be Shinra cannon fodder?)  
  
He reached up and flicked the lamp off, plunging everything into blackness.   
  
Except his eyes. They were all the more luminescent at night, burning like phosphorescent emeralds buried in the deepest pit of a mine.  
  
(These, too.) he thought. (I hate these, too. I hate my heart for continuing to beat…I hate my eyes for constantly reminding me of that wretched Mako…)  
  
Sephiroth curled into a fetal position, drawing his knees tightly against his chest. (Hate…I hate myself…I hate my father…I hate everything…that hates me.)   
  
Out in the street, someone shouted. Another voice answered with a heartfelt peal of laughter.  
  
(And I especially hate them. Those people that are so happy…when I can't be.)  
  
Sephiroth let his neon orbs drift shut, shivering as another flush of Mako radiated throughout his body. (I've never laughed. I've never had a reason too. And I don't think I ever will, not now.)  
  
There was more laughter outside.  
  
(But…if that's what he…Hojo…wants…then I'll just have to be the best damn SOLDIER there is. I'll become so powerful no one will dare hate me. Maybe then…I'd have a reason to just…smile…) 


	5. A Promise

Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters. And sadly, I never will.  
  
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Sephiroth sat up on the examination table, his head reeling and his stomach clamped with intense nausea. Hojo had increased his Mako dose again today, and he could almost feel his emerald eyes burning in his skull from the fifteen thousand hyper-concentrated grams that now coursed through his veins .  
  
"Come on, Sephiroth, get over it," Hojo commanded, grabbing his son's forearm and yanking him from the table, not caring a whit that the teenager, who was still woozy and scarcely able to be upright, nearly fell flat on his face when he did so. "You need to report to SOLDIER immediately. As in…" He paused, glancing up at the wall clock. "…Ten minutes."  
  
"I don't even get any time to…" Sephiroth started to protest, gripping the edge of the table with a quivering, white-knuckled hand to help him rise.  
  
"No. Now get going! And stop carrying on like you're hurt. You're fine."  
  
"Fine…sure," he mumbled, steadying himself as best he could against the table before wobbling forward a few steps. (I get loaded with enough Mako to kill a Behemoth and then ordered off to the military before I'm even sure of where I'm at…fine, indeed.)  
  
"Twenty thousand."  
  
Sephiroth stopped at the sound of Hojo's voice, and carefully turned around. "What?"  
  
"It takes twenty thousand hyper-concentrated grams of Mako to kill a full-grown Behemoth, Sephiroth. The amount I just gave you would only do away with an infant Behemoth."  
  
Without another word, Sephiroth turned again and continued on his way, his pace lethargic and his gait lurching. A stream of choice words for his father screamed through his aching head, and he didn't even give a good damn if he picked up on them, as he always seemed to do.  
  
The recruitment office was thankfully only two floors and a brief elevator ride down, giving the weary, and decidedly angry, teenager a moment to gather his muddled wits. The world around him still blurred and doubled, and aside from pain and incensed curses for Hojo, his mind seemed unable to focus on anything else. He had to come into some state of reality before he walked into the SOLDIER office; not for Hojo, but for himself. If he was going to make a powerful first impression on these people, it wasn't going to be by stumbling in like a sleepy slum drunk.  
  
The elevator glided to a halt, the doors slid open, and Sephiroth stepped out, forcing every ounce of his willpower into walking tall and appearing coherent. His glowing green eyes scanned the room, taking in the line of fresh-faced, eager youths waiting eagerly at the recruitment desk as nearly two dozen crimson-clad SOLDIERs stood at rigid attention on the far wall, waiting to escort the new recruits to the barracks. A pair of officers of some important rank sat behind the desk, taking down names and such, handing the young men uniforms and barking at them to be on their way.  
  
No one paid him any mind as he joined the line, moving up behind a short, wiry brunette with a gunny sack slung over his shoulder. It was strange really; he'd always stood out like an evergreen in Gold Saucer's desert, what with his platinum locks, pale skin, and Mako-lit emerald eyes, yet everyone had seemed to either look through him or not at all.  
  
But that was fine. He hadn't gotten any attention elsewhere, so he hadn't really expected any here. Not yet, anyway.  
  
The line moved quite quickly. Sephiroth, despite his acute hearing, hadn't heard any of the other recruits' names. Even if he'd cared, it was a task in itself to remain steady on his feet.   
  
He soon found himself in front of one of the officers, a hawk-nosed, middle-aged man with flint-gray eyes who looked as if his face would crack if he smiled. "You're a freaky-looking one," he scoffed. "Are you sure you're in the right place? You look awful scrawny to be joining SOLDIER." He squinted up at Sephiroth, scrutinizing his face. "And from the looks of it, you're Mako poisoned, too. Look, son, we don't want sickly Mako junkies here. You need to get yourself out of here and into a hospital."  
  
"No…I don't," the teenager insisted, willing himself to his full height and putting on a feigned air of confidence. "I'm joining SOLDIER. I…have to."  
  
"You have to?" The officer slowly shook his head before focusing his cold eyes on the green glow that looked down at him. "Listen, young man, you've had too much Mako. Way more than any SOLDIER'd ever get. You're not even thinking straight. You need to go get help."   
  
A sudden spark of unexpected rage snapped to life somewhere within Sephiroth's body, and his eyes narrowed into verdant slips of flame. "No, Sir," he asserted, "I need to join SOLDIER. I haven't been given a choice. My life…hasn't given me a choice. I…need…to…join…SOLDIER."  
  
The reaction he got was something you'd see on the face of a bystander watching a raving religious fanatic spouting his 'truths' on a street corner. A moment of awkward silence ensued before the officer shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "Okay, okay," he said. "Whatever you want, kid. You don't need to lay that kinda shit on me." He picked up a ball-point pen and a piece of paper. "You got a name, then?" he asked. "Or has all that Mako screwed with your head and you don't remember it?"  
  
"My name is…Sephiroth," he replied, the odd fury he'd felt instantly squelched by a brutal stab of nausea. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the officer to say something.   
  
"Sephiroth?" he said. "That's it? No last name?"  
  
"…No."   
  
"C'mon, everyone's got a last name."  
  
Sephiroth opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the man. "My father's Doctor Hojo, if that helps," he added, albeit reluctantly.  
  
"That crazy bastard?! His son?" He snorted and printed Sephiroth's name on the paper. "Sure, right. You're certainly strange enough to be, but I can't see anybody loving that asshole enough to have a kid with him. Anyway…all right, how old are you?"  
  
"Sixteen."  
  
"Height?"   
  
"Six foot one."  
  
"Blood type?"  
  
(I should just say Mako. My blood probably doesn't have a type anymore.) "Type O."  
  
"And your dad's Hojo?"  
  
"Yes." (Unfortunately.)  
  
The officer wrote everything down and motioned him toward the other man sitting beside him. "Go ahead, then. Grab a uniform and get outta here."  
  
The younger officer handed him a neatly folded blue uniform and a pair of hard black boots. "Follow one of them," he said, pointing to the red SOLDIERs waiting behind him. "They'll take you to the barracks. Report back here tomorrow at five hundred hours. You can do what you want until then."  
  
(Do what I want. I love the sound of that.) Sephiroth did as he was directed, clutching the military gear tightly against his chest, his arms quivering not just with pain this time, but with a tiny flicker of restrained…  
  
(…Joy? Is that what that feels like…? It's warm…that must be what makes other people smile. Yes. I need to become important so I can make more of that warmth for myself.)  
  
(Myself. Did you hear that, Hojo? Don't think I'm doing this for you. You told me I was joining SOLDIER, and I did. But you didn't tell me to be the most powerful one ever. That…I'm doing for…myself.)  
  
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A/N: Ack! Sorry this one took so long. It's amazing what life piles on you all at once. Anyway, there you go. I hope I'm keeping things on track. I'm always open to suggestions and ideas! And again, thanks for the great reviews! They motivate me like you wouldn't believe, not to mention giving me the warm fuzzies! It's really nice to know people appreciate my work!! ^___^   
  
This is getting to be a long note (for me, anyway) so I'll shut up. I'll keep trying as hard as I can to keep updating every week! 


	6. First Day

Disclaimer: Guess what? These characters still belong to Squaresoft! Isn't that a shocker?

A/N: *bonks head against wall* I never did clarify if this was an AU, did I? Well, yes, it is in fact an AU. Yep. So that takes care of that.

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Sephiroth didn't sleep that night. He didn't even try. Long after lights-out, he lay awake on the stiff upper mattress of the bunk he shared with an older redhead who snored like a sputtering diesel engine. That, combined with his restrained excitement and the dull Mako ache that perpetually clung to his body, neatly squelched any chance he would have had to satisfy his fatigue.

But that was fine. He'd gone without sleep many times before. It was just nice to know he wouldn't have to hear Hojo screaming for him in the morning, regardless of if he'd slept or not. Even a SOLDIER officer barking at him at the crack of dawn would be better than that.

He kept his glowing eyes shut, still angry at them for reminding him of the Mako torture his father put him through. (Maybe now they won't be so bright.) he thought. (SOLDIERs still get Mako treatments, but nothing like what Hojo was giving me, so maybe my eyes will look a little more…human…after awhile.) Drawing the light cotton blanket tight around his shoulders, he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. (C'mon…be morning already! I've been laying here forever!)

As if in answer to his urging, the lights snapped on, startling several of the light sleepers into nearly rolling off their bunk. "Get up!" the responsible officer hollered. "You have five minutes to be in uniform and at the recruitment desk! Move it, all of you!!"

As the officer left, the recruits all scrambled out of bed in a half-stupor, fumbling into their blue uniforms and black boots, trying to make themselves presentable and their uniforms straight-lined in their limited time. 

Sephiroth had no difficulties getting dressed in five minutes. Whenever Hojo had been in a bad mood, which was quite often, that was the time he gave his son in the morning to be ready for the lab. 

So, after carefully lacing the polished leather boots and straightening the silver buckle on his belt, he headed for the recruiting desk well ahead of all the others, most of whom were just struggling into their boots.

The same man that had taken his name yesterday was waiting near the entrance, his steel eyes eager to scrutinize anybody that passed him. When he saw Sephiroth walk past, the teenager could have sworn he saw those shrewd orbs widen a bit in shock. He paid the officer no mind and continued by, stopping in front of the desk, fixing his gaze on the wall ahead of him.

"That was quick, boy," he heard the man comment. 

"Sephiroth, Sir."

"What?"

"My name isn't 'boy,' Sir. It's Sephiroth." His green eyes slowly shifted to meet the officer's affronted snarl.

"Are you being smart with me?!"

"No, Sir." He looked away again. "I'm just refreshing your memory, Sir." (Officer or not, he needs to remember my name. They all need to remember it. One way or another, I'll make sure they do.) "And thank you, Sir. I appreciate your compliment."

The rest of the recruits filtered in, some appearing as if they were still sound asleep. The snoring redhead didn't even look alive.

A SOLDIER Second Class followed the last man in. "All right, you lazy asses! Fall in!!" he ordered. "Look sharp!"

The young men, tired as most were, scurried into a line before the desk, snapping to strict attention. A heavy silence settled onto the Spartan room as the red-garbed SOLDIER saluted the steely-eyed recruitment officer before turning smartly on his heel and exiting.

The officer strode away from his post, stopping abruptly when he reached the center of the line. His intense gray eyes slid from face to face, moving steadily until they fell to Sephiroth's countenance, where his focus halted. Then he spoke, his voice a loud, authoritative baritone.

"I am SOLDIER Sergeant Thomas Bailey," he announced, his tone flattening slightly when he noticed that the silver-haired youth placidly returned his stare, the fierce Mako orbs unwavering and unblinking. "I will be your commanding officer for the next two months," he continued, "unless any of you spineless children decide you can't handle real work…and pain…and go back home to cry to your worthless mothers!" At that, he bore down on Sephiroth, bringing his face less than an inch from the pale teenager's. "Do you understand that, you sickly excuse for a human being? Do you?! Will you run crying back to hide behind your mother's skirts when you find out you're too weak to make it?"

(He said when…not 'if.' He doesn't think I'll last. But I'm not weak. If I was, Hojo's cruelty would have killed me a long time ago…and I wouldn't have minded…then. Now, I'm glad it didn't. I have my chance now. And I will make it. I will have happiness.) "No, Sir!" he responded firmly. (And I couldn't do that anyway. I don't have a mother. Only a father who couldn't care any less about me as a son if he tried.) 

"We'll see about that, young man!" Sergeant Bailey snapped. "The same goes for the rest of you snot-nosed brats!" He resumed his position at the center of the line. "We'll see who's broken before this is over." Again, he looked to Sephiroth, satisfied when the teenager didn't turn those hauntingly bright eyes his way.

(Well, I can guarantee you it won't be me.) Sephiroth mentally assured the Sergeant. (I'll not be defeated by you…or anybody. I'm not even going to be bent.) His jaw clenched at that thought, and a brief image of Hojo's horrid, leering face flashed in his mind. (I hope you heard that, you bastard. Heard and understood.)

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A/N: GAH!! I apologize for this one being so short, especially when it took me about two weeks to post. Good grief. College and work and pretty much everything else just decided to park their fat butts in my life and take away most of my free time. . 

Anyway, I hope this chapter's still decent. I personally don't like it, but…eh, it's late, and I'm not in a good mood. I do have the next chapter thought out, though, and hopefully I can get that up within a reasonable amount of time. 


	7. For What?

Disclaimer: Hey, you know what? Squaresoft still owns these characters! Which means they haven't sold 'em to me yet…*sob*  
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"All right, today we start sword training."  
  
It had been a week since Sephiroth had joined SOLDIER. Seven days, and numerous opportunities to prove Sergeant Bailey's assumption grossly incorrect. Maybe it was his Mako-drenched blood, maybe his firm resolve, or perhaps simply his defiance toward all the people that displayed little more than indifference toward him, but he had outdone the other recruits at everything. Nothing formal yet--just basic exercises such as distance running and push-ups, standard military fare--but no matter what it was, he had lasted longer and just plain performed better than the others.  
  
And of course, that was pissing Sergeant Bailey off.  
  
(He'll just have to continue being upset at me, then. I'm not going to lessen my efforts because of him, or anyone else who doubts me. I know what I'm here for.)  
  
The sergeant led the recruits, who were unable to repress excited grins at the idea that they got to handle weapons now, into the armory.  
  
The armory's austere steel walls were lined from the floor to the low ceiling with heavy iron gun racks, all of them bearing a myriad of stout machine guns and wicked jet-black rifles just waiting to be held by eager young hands.  
  
Their focus today, though, was on the sturdy short swords that were propped against the back wall like a low, glinting curtain, enticing youthful eyes with the future promise of hand-to-hand combat.  
  
Sergeant Bailey stopped the recruits well away from the weapons they were to wield, barking at them to wait at full attention. When they had done that, and after having berated one of them for having a boot lace tied incorrectly, he explained to the inwardly fidgety young men what they would be doing.  
  
"These are the swords you louts will be using," he said, waving a lean hand at the weapons. "They are standard-issue short swords, built well and made to withstand your initial clumsiness. They will last you forever and a day, through hell and back…if you live long enough to get that far." He retrieved one of them and gave it a quick toss in the air. "There are twenty-five kata," he added, "and all of you spineless pond scum will know them inside and out. You will do them when you are awake, you will do them in your sleep, and they will be perfect no matter when you do them."  
  
Flipping the blade over, Sergeant Bailey handed it hilt-first to the first recruit. "Swing it."  
Obviously startled by the feel of the weapon, the young man took the proffered sword and, after the sergeant had stepped back, whipped it in a short, lopsided arc.  
  
"Awful. Horrible. Such ineptness makes me want to vomit." The officer picked up another sword. His eyes slipped to shards of flint as he made a point of approaching Sephiroth and offering him the weapon. "Okay, you freaky thing," he sneered. "You've squeaked through everything else, so let's see how you handle this."  
  
"Yes, Sir," the teenager replied, his tapered fingers clasping the leather-bound grip. Scarcely waiting for the sergeant to move away, he brought the steel in a graceful upward swipe, curved it across in a whir of silver, then slid it level with his brilliant eyes. Above the blade, he saw his commanding officer glaring evilly at him, the man's thin lips invisible in his intense scowl.  
  
Sephiroth lowered the sword and stiffened to attention. "Sir," he said, "I hope that was satisfactory, Sir." (How did I know how to wield that? Those other physical exercises…they don't require skill. But swordsmanship does, and I've never even touched one of these before. Yet…somehow…that wasn't even difficult. I…knew how to use it.)  
  
Sergeant Bailey stomped up to him, his face paling with rage. "Bastard kid…you disgust me!" he growled. "I don't know how you can be so feeble and effeminate-looking and still best everyone here, but don't think that'll last. Believe you me, boy, it won't. It damn sure won't. I will see to it that you're crushed!"  
  
(No you won't.) "Sir!" he responded, wisely concealing his true reply. Disrespecting his commanding officer, no matter how inane and hateful he was, was no way to gain positive repute. For now, he would have to tolerate his malice…but only until he   
outranked him. And that, he had already decided, was a certainty.   
  
Hissing a profanity at Sephiroth under his breath, Sergeant Bailey took his position again. "All of you, get a blade and spread out! We're going through the first four kata. Move it!"  
The first kata was a standing, two-handed, overhead slash. The second, the same, but lunging. The third was a single-handed diagonally upward slash, and the fourth brought the blade back down and across. The most novice, basic moves, yet a handful of the recruits managed to mess them up, causing the sergeant to explode in a hail of violent expletives that Sephiroth had never even heard. And considering that Hojo had an ample vocabulary of those words, it came as quite a shock to him that there were some the short-tempered scientist had never used.  
  
He even received some of the foul language himself, though it wasn't for messing anything up. He moved through all four kata flawlessly, maintaining perfect form and handling the short sword as if he'd been born with it in his hand. Sergeant Bailey noticed this just as quickly as the failures, and, leaving the screw-ups to stand stupidly with their swords in hand, trying to comprehend what they had all been called, halted Sephiroth in the middle of the third slash.  
  
"Are you trying to show off, you girly, white-haired bastard?!" He yanked the sword out of his hand and flung it to the floor with a resounding clang that stopped the other young men in their tracks, and when they sensed the possibility that one of their own was going to get a verbal thrashing even worse than any of them had, they ceased whatever kata they were in the process of performing, lowering their blades to watch the spectacle.  
  
"No, Sir!" Sephiroth replied, averting his eyes, as was proper. "I am only doing what you told us to, Sir!"  
  
"The bloody damn hell you were! Have you used a sword before?"  
  
"No, Sir, never."  
  
"That's a load of shit, too. Don't take me for a fool, boy!" Sergeant Bailey squinted deep into Sephiroth's verdant orbs, rage and insult hardening his gray eyes into slits of iron as death-cold as the swords. "It's all that Mako in you, ain't it? You're still so hopped up on it that you think you can just prance in here like some sort of prodigy, piss me off, and then get away with it! You think you're better than the rest of these puerile rodents, don't you? You think you're better than me, don't you?! Don't just stand there…what was it…Sephiroth! Answer me!! You're so pissing full of Mako you think you're God!!"  
  
Despite his determination, Sephiroth couldn't suppress the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes. (I don't even know how I'm doing this myself.) he thought. (I've never wielded a sword before…maybe it is the Mako…?)   
  
"No, Sir," he replied, his voice low. "I don't think I'm God, Sir. I know I'm not." (All this because I demonstrate skill? Because of what little bit I've proven so far?)  
  
"Then stop acting like you are!"  
  
"You want me to be a failure, Sir?" Sephiroth knew good and well it was dangerously beyond proper means to talk back to a superior officer and question his words, but he couldn't…wouldn't…let it go that easily. "Because if that's what you want, Sir, than you are going to be very disappointed."  
  
A soft murmur rippled through the onlookers. His temper having gotten the best of him, Sergeant Bailey didn't even know what to say as that pair of neon green eyes met his livid, ashen face. Finally, after a long, stifling moment, his lips curled back in a canine snarl. "I could kill you, you smart-mouthed little asshole. SOLDIER protocol won't let me, but if you ever think you're going to defy me again, I will make sure you get sent to the front lines on the bloodiest battlefield…and that someone does me the favor of putting you through a slow, gruesome death. Understood?"  
  
(You sound…just like my father. And I hate my father. I hate you, too.) "Yes, Sir!" (I'm not God, and I never will be…but I will be better than you. Then I'd like to see you act so important. You just can't stand it right now that you know I have the potential to best you, but you refuse to acknowledge that on account of my appearance and your jealousy.)   
(I don't know how I'm able to use that sword so well. All that's important is that I can.)   
(This man…and Hojo…and whoever else tries to break me…be damned.)  
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A/N: Yay! I got this one posted quicker than I thought! WHOO-HOO!!  
  
…erm…  
  
Right. Well, anyway, glad you're enjoying the story! Many thanks for the reviews, too!^^ 


	8. Unwelcome Expectation

Disclaimer: I don't own FF7. Goodness, I hope no one actually thought I did. I apologize if anyone somehow got that idea.  
  
A/N: Ahhhhhhh! I'm sorry this one took so long! Too many distractions and other not-nice things, I tell you! Thank you for being patient, though!   
  
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It was well after midnight. Hojo sat alone at his kitchen table, his ink-dark eyes wide as he refused the persistent tug of sleep. He eagerly perused the letter he'd received earlier that evening, his thin lips twisting into a cunning little smirk as he finished the last paragraph. "Perfect," he muttered. "Just perfect."  
  
He reached across the table, snatching a tablet of paper and a pen. He hastily scribbled notes on the blank sheet before him, so thrilled with the news he'd just read that his penmanship was a scant shade above illegible. "I think it's time for a new test," he quietly chuckled.   
  
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(The last week of basic training. The last week I'll have to tolerate…him.)  
  
"Materia," Sergeant Bailey announced. He nodded at the other officer that had joined him this morning; this one held a long, narrow black box, which was no doubt filled with the pale green orbs. "Unless any of you children were living under a damn rock, I'm sure you all know what the hell it is, so I'll skip the explanation. Now you get to use it, provided all of you can muster enough of your feeble brain cells to do so."  
  
The second officer undid the brass latch on the box and began to hand out the spell materia, placing one piece of it in each recruit's hands. Though no one took so much as a second to look at what they'd been given, since they were all waiting at attention, the half-smiles that lit several of the faces were ill-concealed.   
  
"This is all Fire materia," the sergeant said. "One of the most basic kinds, and hopefully easy enough for all of your pea-brains." He paused for a moment before adding, "And if any of you set anything on fire that isn't supposed to be, you better hope like hell you can run faster than me, because if I catch you, I will make you pray for death."  
  
As the other man continued doling out the materia, Sergeant Bailey moved to where Sephiroth stood at the end of the line, staring hard at the teenager's averted emerald eyes. "You," he snapped. "Come with me."  
  
"Sir!" Sephiroth moved into stride behind the officer as the older man exited the training room, heading down a long, bleak, and vaguely familiar hallway. "May I ask where we're going, Sir?"   
  
"I got special orders for you, boy." Sephiroth couldn't see the officer's face, but it wasn't hard to tell that he was grinning--no doubt rather maliciously, from the tone of his voice. "Just this morning. That loony Hojo has something else in mind for you instead of learning to use Fire materia." He gave a bitter little laugh. "Something more complicated, I guess. Apparently it's not enough that you think you're a deity; your psychotic old man must think he's gonna try and make you one!"  
  
(Hojo? Not him again! Does he plan on loading me with Mako again? Or…) Sephiroth felt his throat clench at the thought. (I don't fear Hojo. I said I wouldn't, and I don't. It's what that Mako does to me that…)  
  
"You're awful quiet there," Sergeant Bailey remarked snidely, interrupting his thoughts. "Did I hit one of your girly little nerves? Or are you just scared someone found something you might not be able to be so frickin' perfect at? Is that it?"  
  
Sephiroth knew exactly how he wanted to reply to that, but he wisely withheld what he was going to say. "No, Sir. Not at all."  
  
"Huh. We'll see about that." The sergeant abruptly halted, turning for a moment to flash Sephiroth a malevolent smirk. "Your daddy might have found something I can watch you fail miserably at. I can't wait." He turned around again and continued walking, his footsteps clomping loudly on the hard, immaculate floor.   
  
(I hope you can, because whatever it is Hojo has in mind…won't get the best of me.)   
  
Sephiroth followed Sergeant Bailey to the end of the unusually long hallway, where the officer stopped again, this time before a solid steel door. He stood there for a moment, his back to Sephiroth, before stepping aside and raising his hard-edged eyes to meet the radiant Mako glow. "Go ahead," he sneered. "Hojo wants you, not me. I'm just here as a spectator."  
  
(Indeed.) Sephiroth's emerald orbs narrowed a bit, yet he remained silent as he slowly took hold of the cold door handle, pulling it open just a crack, reluctant to open it fully, knowing he'd be met by his father's wretched, sadistic leer. He'd believed that maybe, just maybe, once he'd joined--or rather, was told to join--SOLDIER, he wouldn't have to see that awful excuse for a human being again; if not for the rest of life, at least until he'd fulfilled his self-promise.   
  
But now, for some reason he wasn't sure he wanted to know, Hojo had called him out of basic training to try something 'more complicated,' as Sergeant Bailey had put it. He had little doubt in his mind that, regardless of how 'complicated' this was going to be, pain was inevitable. (He always laughed whenever he hurt me. And I'm sure he will now, too. He likes seeing me in pain. He must.)  
  
(Of course he does.)  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for? A swift kick in the ass? Go! I'm looking forward to seeing this, but I don't have all damn day!"   
  
Sephiroth gladly would have turned around and knocked the cantankerous bastard to the floor, but he caught himself when he thought about how little that would serve him. (I don't have to resort to that. Outranking him someday will prove far more rewarding.)  
  
He tugged the door wide open and before he could so much as place a foot in the room beyond, Sergeant Bailey more or less shoved him through, yanking the portal shut behind them.  
  
They stood in a windowless, absurdly huge room with stern gray, almost black walls, that was illumined by a ring of dazzling fluorescent lights spaced just so in the center of the ceiling that only the barest edges of the room were left in shadow.  
  
And in the center of the room, appearing deviously pleased with himself, stood Hojo, his dark eyes invisible behind the white glare the lights cast on his glasses.  
  
"Sergeant Thomas Bailey, was it?" The scientist's grating voice echoed harshly in the bare room, loud and as unpleasant as someone scratching a chalkboard. "Thank you for bringing my son here," he said. "I understand it must have been quite inconvenient to take him out of training, but this is a matter of utmost importance, so I appreciate you obliging my request."  
  
"You didn't request, Doctor Hojo, you demanded. And yes, it's inconvenient, but…I have to admit I'm pretty damn curious as to what this is all about. You don't mind me staying until this is through, do you? I'd really like to see this." He shot a furtive glance of pure malice at Sephiroth as he waited for the scientist to reply.  
  
"No, no, not at all. Please, do stay," Hojo cackled. "I would advise you to keep your distance, however. I'm not sure I know quite what to expect from my son."   
  
Though his eyes weren't visible, Sephiroth could feel his father's black gaze settle on him. A phantom tingle of Mako tickled his veins as his body involuntarily tensed under the scrutiny.   
  
"Come here, Sephiroth. The sooner you do as I tell you, the sooner you can return to training…and get away from me again."   
  
(Damn! He still does that!) the teenager thought as he reluctantly walked toward his father. He halted several feet away from Hojo, forcing himself to match the man's odd, unnerving stare. "All right," he said, after a long, awkward silence. "What is it you want me to do?"  
  
Hojo chuckled softly to himself, raising his head slightly so that his glasses didn't catch so much of the light and his inky orbs were more visible. "You're doing very well, Sephiroth. And you were concerned about never having used a sword before." He paused and took a quick look past his son to the officer who was leaning against the door, his black boot tapping a regular rhythm on the floor as he waited impatiently for some clearly expected entertainment. "I hear your unexpected prowess rather…upset…your officer there. And I can tell it must have confused you at first, too."  
  
"It did. But I excel at it, and that's that." Sephiroth tucked a stray tendril of silvery hair behind his ear. "You haven't told me what you want me to do yet."  
  
Even before he finished speaking, Hojo thrust a hand into one of the deep pockets on his lab coat and withdrew none other than a piece of green materia. He extended it in an open palm toward his son. "Use this," he stated brusquely.  
  
(Materia? He wants me to use materia? But that's what I was about to do in training anyway. Why would he segregate me to have me…use materia?)  
  
"This isn't ordinary materia, Sephiroth. Not Fire, like those other boys are using. Oh no." A devious twinkle caught in his eye as he grabbed the teenager's hand and pressed the cool orb into it.   
  
"This is…Ultima."  
  
Sephiroth's heart skipped a beat. "Ultima? That's…"  
  
"…The most powerful spell short of the summons." Hojo took a quick step backward. "Now use it."  
  
Sephiroth felt a light flush of angry confusion rise in his pale cheeks. "That's absurd," he replied in a low voice. "I've never used materia before, and now you expect me to cast Ultima?"  
  
"Of course. And don't fool yourself, Sephiroth. You're more than capable of doing so." The scientist glanced over at Sergeant Bailey again. "And it appears your officer is waiting for the show, so don't disappoint him…or me." His eyes narrowed and grew even darker still, glazing over with an ominous, almost reptilian sheen. "I'm quite sure you know there's a lot at stake here." He took several more steps backward before turning and heading to the wall opposite the sergeant, leaving his son standing in the middle of the room with an immensely powerful piece of materia in his hand.  
  
Sephiroth watched Hojo intently as he retreated to the far wall. He could feel his verdant orbs glowing even brighter than usual; the Mako in his blood must have been reacting to the unawakened power of Ultima.   
  
He let his gaze wander down to the pearly green sphere in his palm. (Hojo wants me…to cast Ultima. That would please him. Sergeant Bailey wants me…to fail…at anything, just so he can see me fail, and that would please him. I…don't want to please either of them. Not for the way they've treated me.)  
  
(This isn't right. Ultima…is Ultima…)   
  
(But…I'm doing what I'm doing for…myself.)  
  
(So, all right then…) Sephiroth's slender fingers tightened around the materia, and he shut his eyes. (Ultima…)   
  
He'd seen pictures of the spell before, so he focused on the images he could most clearly remember. He concentrated on feeling the energy within the orb, mentally willing it to stir. There was tangible resistance to his efforts; he felt the materia grow icy cold in his hand. (No.) he silently halted the spell's refusal. (I…no! Listen to me…and work!)  
  
The Mako in his body began to burn within him like a sudden fever as he forced every last ounce of willpower he had into conjuring Ultima. He vaguely recognized the sheer absurdity of what he was trying to do, and where he was trying to do it, for that matter, but he broke that doubt before it interrupted his concentration.  
  
Sephiroth felt his limbs start tingling, and his heart hammered. He felt consciousness trying to escape him; it was as if he were pouring his very life into calling upon this awesome energy, and the extreme effort was taking its toll.   
  
(Don't…I have to…)   
  
The orb warmed like the artificial fluid surging in his veins.   
  
(I will…)  
  
His body went completely numb.   
  
(Ultima…!)  
  
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Hojo watched with ever-widening eyes as his son attempted the monumental task--after all, a fresh, teenage SOLDIER-trainee trying to cast the most powerful and mentally taxing spell known was unheard of, ridiculous to the point of being laughable. "But I know you won't fail, Sephiroth," he murmured, grinning triumphantly when he saw the first spark of emerald energy ignite in the air in front of his son. "I didn't leave room for failure in this experiment."  
  
"Neither did…Jenova."  
  
With a sudden, explosive howl, the spark erupted into a blinding wall of searing white-green power, swirling and crackling wildly for what seemed an eternity before dissipating as quickly as it had appeared, leaving in its wake a distant, fading roar and a lingering taint of unnatural force in the room.   
  
Sephiroth stood perfectly still as the Ultima spell died, his Mako green eyes as intense as the energy he had just conjured. Intense, but eerily vacant.  
  
Hojo approached him, as did Sergeant Bailey. The officer was lighting into him with a livid and shockingly colored fount of obscenities, and Hojo was muttering something about certain scientific success, but before he comprehended any of the words being directed at him…he collapsed, slumping to his knees with a soft moan before falling face-first to the floor. The now-chilled green orb slipped from his fingers as he fell, hitting the gray tile with a delicate clink.  
  
Hojo said nothing as he crouched down beside Sephiroth, swatting away the platinum locks that had drifted across his face. He peered down into the dulled emerald eyes and slowly nodded his head. "Just as I suspected," he announced.  
  
Sergeant Bailey bent over, his curses momentarily ceasing, to see for himself what this oddball scientist was looking at. "Holy shit!" he hollered, snapping upright. "I sure as hell wanted him to fail, I mean, it was Ultima, but…damn! It frickin' killed him! You're just as delusional as he was! Damn! You loony son-of-a--!!"  
  
"I would advise you to hold your tongue, Sergeant," Hojo barked, standing up as well. "You don't want to find out what I…or my son…is truly capable of firsthand. Believe me." His dark eyes flashed venomously. "And he's not dead."   
  
"How the hell could he not be? That was Ultima!! Top brass don't even use that!"  
  
"No, they don't. There's a reason for that, a reason you would be wise to not try and ferret out. My son is capable of more than your feeble, obscenity-tarnished brain can comprehend, and that is the only explanation you will get, so don't waste either my valuable time or yours by inquiring further." He leisurely stooped and retrieved the discarded materia and dropped it into his pocket again.   
  
"I'm done with him. Give him a couple minutes, then take him back and continue the training as usual," the scientist ordered. "He'll be fine." He strolled past the flustered and indignant officer without casting a second glance back at his fallen son, leaving the two of them in the hollow room as he undoubtedly returned to his lab.  
  
As the door clanged shut behind Hojo, Sergeant Bailey scowled down at the unconscious teenager. "Cocky little bastard," he snarled. "I will see you fail at something. You mastered the kata and then cast a damn-near forbidden spell…I don't know what you…or that psycho are up to, but so help me…" He rammed a hard boot into Sephiroth's ribs, rudely turning him on his side.   
  
The teenager inhaled sharply, his Mako eyes brightening and loosely focusing on what he could make out of the officer's boots. Carefully drawing himself into a sitting position, he raised a weak hand to his throbbing head and took another deep breath.  
  
(I…cast…Ultima.) Though his thoughts were yet muzzy, he distinctly remembered what had made them so. (Ultima…)  
Above him, Sergeant Bailey shouted for him to drag his ass back to training. Sephiroth sat a short while longer, allowing his senses to fully return before obliging his enraged commanding officer and easing himself to his feet. He made a deliberate point of rising to his full height, which was enough to shadow the sergeant by a couple inches, and met his shards of flint with orbs of the purest emerald.   
  
The sergeant had nothing more to say to him as he pivoted on his heel and made for the door.  
  
Light-headedness still lingering, Sephiroth followed. (I did what you wanted me to, Hojo. It wasn't for you…but I did it. And I'm never using Ultima again. Like the sword…I don't know quite how I did that…but I will not use Ultima. What that did to me…I don't ever want to happen again.)  
  
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A/N: Bad place to end it, I think, but I'd type all night if I don't stop myself here. Let me know what you think of this one! I had such a hard time getting this chapter started…and it probably shows, too. ^_~   
  
I have a couple days off of school this week (midterm break--YAY!), so I'm hoping to get chapter nine up by this weekend. Please keep the reviews coming! I need all the motivation I can get, believe me… 


	9. The Sword

Disclaimer: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I don't own FF7?!?! AHHHHH!!!! My life is over!! *dies*  
  
A/N: I said I'd get this chapter up, well, a long time ago, did I not? And I most certainly did not. Well, you can blame a shiny new PS2 game for this one being really late. That, and my muse decided to take a way longer mid-term break than me. ^_~   
  
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(A year. A year, and I've gotten nowhere.)  
  
Sephiroth, along with a handful of other low-ranking SOLDIERs--some he knew, some he'd never seen before--were congregated in the armory. Most of them were casually going through the kata, though two of the older ones had paired off and were sparring with each other. The armory master, a middle-officer in SOLDIER, sat on a bench near the door, idly wiling away his time watching the young men practice, occasionally shouting out a word of praise or disgust.  
  
Sephiroth, as always, had chosen to train alone, walking through the kata as easily as he drew breath. (This is redundant.) he thought angrily, swiping his sword across in a lazy arc. (Guard duty and training…this isn't going to get me anywhere. And it's all thanks to Sergeant Bailey that I've not been sent to do anything important, and become as renowned as I could…no…will be. He would rather walk through the hells barefoot than see me outrank him.) A blur of silver brought the sword to a defensive position again. He paused there a moment, closing his emerald eyes.   
  
"You! White-Hair!!"  
  
At the sound of that voice, Sephiroth inwardly cringed. A year, and rarely did his commanding officer address him by his real name. He slowly and deliberately turned around to see Sergeant Bailey standing in the doorway, now rather loudly bad-mouthing the startled armory master.   
  
When the sergeant noticed that he'd gotten the teenager's attention--and interrupted everyone's training--he barked at the others to keep going while bearing down on Sephiroth. He stopped barely a foot from him, apparently too incensed to notice that no one had obeyed his order to continue, and were now watching the two with subdued curiosity. They had already seen Bailey berate Sephiroth countless times, more often than not for some stupid, petty reason, but the novelty of witnessing such a commonplace occurrence had not worn off.   
  
"All right…Sephiroth," Sergeant Bailey growled, the name slipping like acid from his lips. "I have finally found something I KNOW you can't do."  
  
"Is that so, Sir?"   
  
"Shut up!" The officer firmly pointed past Sephiroth. All the eyes in the room followed the gesture, but before the Mako-green ones could, the armory master hollered a protest.  
  
"Sergeant Bailey! You don't have permission to give orders about…"  
  
"Shut your trap, asshole! I don't need permission for this!" the sergeant retorted, briefly glancing back at him.  
  
Sephiroth turned away from the officer, scanning the wall before him. (He doesn't think I can use a…rifle? Why would I want to anyway, what with my skill with…the…sword…) His thoughts trailed off when he caught sight of what the sergeant must have been indicating.  
  
There, lying on the floor beneath the gun racks, glinting cold blue in the sparse light that filtered past the sable firearms above it, was an immaculate, slender-bladed katana that appeared to be as long as he was tall.   
  
"This," Sergeant Bailey snapped, brushing past Sephiroth to stand nearer the indicated weapon, thrusting his finger in its direction. "This was brought back from Wutai a long time ago," he explained. "It took seven people to get this bastard in here, 'cause it's so frickin' heavy, and no one's been able to use the thing because no one can even get it off the floor on their own. What the hell it's made off, no one can figure out, but we do know that whatever that may be, it is impossible to use. Even for you."  
  
Momentarily captivated by the sword's chilling sheen, Sephiroth reluctantly tore his verdant gaze from it, regarding the sergeant's maliciously triumphant visage with the customary indifference he'd come to treat most of the bitter officer's spite with, although this time, the smoldering contempt was ill-hidden in his Mako-bright eyes. "So, Sir, you want me to try to lift it, fail miserably, and then cower in a corner while you gloat over your extraordinary triumph?"  
  
Sergeant Bailey belted out a sonorous peal of laughter. "Go ahead, Girly, take that almighty tone with me! You won't sound so damn superior when this metallic piece of shit gets the best of you! And it will, too! It's gotten the best of everyone!"  
  
Sephiroth wordlessly moved closer, once again catching the sword's deceptively living glitter. He stared hard down at the blade's shadowed obsidian hilt. He crouched as close to the katana as he could, letting the short sword he still held slip gently to the floor as he reached past Sergeant Bailey's feet and twined his slender fingers around the cool hilt. Above him, the officer was still laughing, secure in the idea that he'd at last found something he wouldn't be able to excel at, or even do.  
  
(This sword…) He couldn't bring himself to look away from the smooth, silver-blue blade that seemed to…beckon him…to wield it…  
  
(This sword…this…is my…sword.)  
  
Sergeant Bailey's laughter couldn't have ended more abruptly as Sephiroth, the impossible sword now easily in his one-handed grasp, rose beside him, looking no more strained over lifting it than he would have been over plucking a flower. The teenager's glowing emerald orbs met his defiantly, as they had already done so many times.   
  
And the triumph that had lit the sergeant's flint eyes now shone in that Mako glow instead.  
  
The sergeant was so stupefied and enraged that his only reply was a guttural string of inarticulate noises littered with whispered profanities.   
  
"Cool!" one of the other SOLDIERs piped up, shattering the awkward moment. That jubilant, out-of-place comment earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs from another standing near him.   
  
"Sergeant, Sir," Sephiroth said, horizontally leveling the sword at arms' length in his commanding officer's direction. "This is what you did not think I could do, is that correct?"  
  
The sergeant's face drained of all color at the question. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists, and it became more than obvious that he was losing his already loose grip on his self-control.   
  
"You…you…son-of-a-bitch!!" he finally shrieked, his voice rising an octave with exploding rage. Before anybody, save Sephiroth, could register the movement, he snatched the teenager's discarded short sword from the floor and lashed out at him with it, only to find his fury-blinded strike met by the pristine steel of the lengthy katana.  
  
Sephiroth had deftly caught the swing with the narrow flat of the new sword, and now backed up a couple steps, taking the heat that had glossed over Sergeant Bailey's eyes as an indication that the short-wicked officer had at long last taken leave of his surely fragile sanity.   
  
The armory master shoved past a pair of gaping SOLDIERs and confronted the sergeant, a rather bold move considering the fact that he himself was unarmed. "Sergeant Bailey, protocol strictly prohibits a superior officer from striking a junior officer unless it is with reasonable and justifiable intent. And this, Sergeant, is most certainly neither. Continuing this could result in suspension or worse, so I suggest you…"  
  
Bailey momentarily snapped the sword at the other officer's throat. "Suggestions my ass," he hissed. "Screw SOLDIER protocol! I've had enough of this bastard kid's perfection! I don't know what the hell he's on, but he must still think he's God, because he always manages to piss the hell out of me by being able to do everything I know he can't and shouldn't be able to!! This is bull!! Let me be suspended then; see if I give a damn! It'll be well worth it to see him bleed!!"  
  
At that, he shoved the armory master away, lunging at Sephiroth with a sharp crossways swipe that was once again deterred by the six-foot sword. With a bellow of aggravated fury, he slashed again, and again, and was each time stopped cold. "You can't block everything!" he hollered over the third clash of steel.  
  
The power behind the last strike forced Sephiroth back another step. "The way you attack, Sir, it wouldn't be difficult to," he replied, lowering the long sword's deadly point a bit. "I may not have anywhere near as much fighting experience as you, Sir, but even the most novice SOLDIER could block all of that."   
  
"Shut up!!" Sergeant Bailey slashed again, this time purposely allowing his sword to be caught by the other, using the momentum of both to slide his blade past Sephiroth's, scoring a superficial cut to the teenager's upper arm that sliced the fabric of his uniform and drew a thin trickle of blood. Over the reflective edge of the weapon he met those brilliant emerald eyes, now glowing hot with stimulated Mako, and bared a malicious smirk at them.  
  
That split second of gloating was all the window Sephiroth needed. Using his free arm, the one the sergeant had wounded, he forcefully swatted the officer's sword arm back and away, leaving the scowling man unbalanced. He rotated the katana slightly and, in the blink of an eye, drove the flat of it brutally hard into the sergeant's vulnerable midsection, sending him flying backward to land hard on his back mere inches short of colliding with a set of gun racks.  
  
Not a word dared to be spoken. A heavy veil of silence hung over the room for several moments as all present comprehended what had just happened. Not even the armory master knew how to react.  
  
Sergeant Bailey, struggling to catch the breath that had been knocked from his lungs from the impact of both the sword and the floor, carefully levered into a sitting position, his pride clearly wounded more than his body. The insane glare in his eyes was now well beyond the point of being flat-out homicidal. He glowered intently up at Sephiroth, oblivious to the other eyes in the room that were trained on him.  
  
"And…what I'm doing is…beyond protocol," he chuckled, first rising to his knees, than to his feet. He still had the short sword clutched in one hand. "You struck me, too. If I get suspended, than…so will you."  
  
"No, he won't, Sergeant," the armory master said, stepping forward once again. "You initiated this; he was acting in self-defense. That's permissible."  
  
The sergeant just snorted and slowly bowed his head. "I suppose it is, then," he conceded.   
  
Sephiroth, who had lowered the katana and was absently inspecting the smudge of crimson on his arm, noted the blatant insincerity in his officer's far-too-easy concession. It wasn't hard to tell he had no intention whatsoever of letting this issue drop.   
  
And he brought the sleek sword up just as the infuriated officer rushed him yet once more, wordlessly raising his own sword above his head to deliver a clumsy overhead slash to the Mako-eyed teenager who had become the sole target of his bitter, envious rage.  
  
He cut his momentum abruptly as he found himself suddenly staring down the blade of the massive katana he'd known no one to have ever been able to wield. When he'd come to a complete stop, the deadly point was poised within an inch of his throat.  
  
"This is…my sword," Sephiroth announced in a low voice. He let the blade linger a bit, lowering it only when he was sure the sergeant wouldn't try anything. "That is why no one else could use it. It is mine."  
  
"That's a load of shit," Sergeant Bailey spat, his voice devoid of the bravado he'd demonstrated earlier. "I still say you're loonier than all of the Science Division kooks combined, including your…"  
  
"That's enough, Sergeant." The armory master, satisfied that the officer was somewhat sated, tugged the short sword from the flint-eyed man's hand, who offered him little more than a mouthed profanity. "You're coming with me. The higher-ups need to hear of this." Taking a firm hold of his arm, he started for the door, moving through the small, willingly parted throng of SOLDIERs. Bailey only swore at him and yanked his arm free, barking at the other officer that he wasn't a damn half-wit child and could walk out on his own.  
  
Sephiroth paid no attention to their departure. He didn't pay attention to the SOLDIERs that lingered, still caught in an intense, curious thrall.   
  
All he could see was the elegantly curved sword that he now held in his grasp. It felt so…not familiar, but…right, to hold this weapon. There was just something about it, in its…way…that told him it was his.   
  
(And it is. As I told him, no one else could wield it…because it was…waiting…for me. Yes, waiting. That's right.)  
  
(And it is…the Masamune.)  
  
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A/N: THERE! At last. Sephy has his Masamune now! Isn't that nice? Okay, now I know I've seen about three or four different lengths for the thing, but I've decided on six feet. Why? Because I just have, that's why. ^_~ And as for my interpretation of why only he can use the Masamune--it 'made' itself too heavy for anyone but him to actually use. I will elaborate more on this later on.   
  
~*~*~*~   
  
Lady Spoon/Cutiemew: You bet! When do we leave? ^_^  
  
ciara ^-^: That would be cute, wouldn't it? I might just want to keep Sephy all to myself, tho!  
  
Kat_Aclysm: I'm glad you liked this anyway! Oh, and you've got some hilarious fics, BTW. I got a really good laugh out of 'em!   
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Another big thanks for the reviews, too! ^________^  
  
  
Alright, let's see…what am I forgetting…? Oh yes. I can pretty much guarantee chapter ten will take awhile. (Like the last two haven't…o_O) Only this time, I'm actually telling you about it ahead of time! 


	10. Allowed the Chance

Disclaimer: You wouldn't believe how hard I cried when I found out Square owned FFVII. And here, all this time, I thought I had. *sob*  
  
A/N: I apologize for the long-ass wait. First it was finals, then some family stuff, and then my computer decided to get invaded by a cute little virus and temporarily cease its important functions, so…   
  
Oh, to (hopefully) answer Chocobo Goddess' question: As I've got it planned now, this fic will be ending before the story of the game starts.  
  
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(Cross slash…cross slash…lunge…forward strike…back strike…overhead…)  
  
(…Boring…boring…boring.)  
  
Stopping short of the seventh kata, Sephiroth slowly brought the Masamune level with his face, placidly gazing at the emerald reflection of his Mako-bright eyes on the narrow flat of the katana. A short moment passed, and a barely noticeable scowl quirked his lips.   
  
(Even with this perfect sword…these kata are still so redundant!)  
  
He abruptly swung around, bringing the blade in a level arc as he spun…and cut the movement short in less than a heartbeat, the cold tip of the katana a hairsbreadth short of severing an understandably startled officer's jugular.  
  
The officer -- a major by the looks of it -- gave a thin chuckle and glanced down at the blade that had nearly claimed his life. "Glad someone's in control of that monster," he said, his voice somewhere on the edge between rattled and amused.   
  
"You should be more careful walking up behind someone like that, Sir," Sephiroth warned. "I could have killed you." He lowered the Masamune, marveling a bit when he noticed a thin red score where he'd stopped the blade.   
  
The red-haired officer chuckled again as the teenager removed the sword from its precarious position. "I see that. And here I thought six feet was a safe distance." He folded his arms across his broad chest, his azure eyes matching the verdant ones for intensity. "I am Major David Blacke," he said. "And you are Sephiroth…the young man that got Sergeant Bailey suspended."  
  
Sephiroth said nothing, but the flash in his Mako eyes was more than enough to indicate his feelings about that situation.  
  
"…Not that I say I can care," Blacke added. "You were acting in self-defense, so…technically, he suspended himself. Which is fine with me. I couldn't stand him myself. The man had way too much of a temper to be a good SOLDIER officer. Or a good SOLDIER, period. I still don't know how he got through…" He trailed off for a brief moment, seeing that the teenager was now clearly losing interest in what he was saying. "And now that I told you you're not in trouble for what happened to Bailey, I should get the hell out of here, right?" he smirked.  
  
(You could have stayed the hell out to begin with and saved us both the time.) "I can't say as it really worried me about getting in trouble, Sir. Even if it had been my fault, the punishment the military would have given me would have been…(nothing compared to what my own father put me through)…negligible." Recalling the countless hours of hell Hojo had subjected him to, he wisely chose not to divulge the true reason for his nonchalance.   
  
"Fair enough, I suppose." Blacke nodded and looked up at the wall clock, noting the odd hour. "Now, may I ask why you are training in the armory at four o'clock in the morning? Unless you had a night guard shift and got relieved of it early, you're not even supposed to be in here. The day guards don't have to start reporting in for another two hours, either."  
  
"I couldn't sleep, Sir, so I thought I would do something constructive."  
  
"Sleep isn't constructive?"  
  
Sephiroth had a difficult time restraining himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation. This officer wasn't as obstinate and foul-mouthed as Bailey, that much was certain, but his dry attempts at humor were no less annoying.  
  
"Not much for kidding around, are you, son?" The smirk had never left his face.  
  
"Kidding around with a superior officer is a bit odd, Sir. And no, I'm not."  
  
"Suit yourself," Blacke replied, shrugging. "I know a lot of officers don't appreciate humor from or with the enlisted, but I think it does a lot for morale, so long as it doesn't get out of line. Then it pisses me off, just like the rest." He strode past Sephiroth and retrieved one of the standard swords that was propped against the wall behind him. "Now, since you're clearly wide awake, and I have to be up anyway…care to spar? Show me what that unusable Wutaian sword is capable of?"  
  
(More than you know…as am I…) "I practice alone, Sir. I don't think you want to see what the Masamune is capable of, either." He turned to face the Major, the cool ebon hilt of the katana tight in his grasp.  
  
Blacke suddenly went sober. "Perhaps I do, young man," he insisted, stepping within range of the sword once again, his own blade raised in a cautious attack position. "Aside from Bailey, the armory master, and a handful of enlisted, no one's seen…"  
  
There was a blur of singing silver, the sharp squeal of metal scraping metal…and the top half of his sword spun to the floor, sheared clean through by the Masamune.  
  
A short, awkward silence ensued, in which Blacke lost customary military composure and couldn't help but gaze stupidly at what had, mere seconds ago, been a very sturdy -- and very whole -- short sword.  
  
"No, you don't." The cool, deliberate words brought Blacke's eyes up to meet a pair of piercing Mako emeralds that didn't show the least glimmer of surprise.  
  
"Holy shit! That was mythril!"  
  
"Yes, Sir, it was."  
  
The officer shifted his attention back to what was left of the sword in his hand before dropping it to the floor like it was a scorching hot iron. "Damn," he murmured. "…Through mythril…!"  
  
"Now if you'll excuse me, Sir, I was practicing…alone." Sephiroth didn't even seem to be even the least bit shocked or awed by what he'd just done with the massive katana. No…he knew what it could do, what power it held…what power he held…  
  
"I can honestly see why your sergeant felt so threatened by you and that blade. I don't condone the way he handled it, but still…" Blacke stood still for a few minutes, deep in thought. When he at last spoke again, his voice was somehow teetering on the edge of triumphant, and it would have almost appeared as if he'd had an epiphany.   
  
"You, young man, don't belong here. With a sword like that, you need to be cutting more than a perfect kata form. I think you need to take that katana where it was made." The Major headed past Sephiroth toward the door, clapping him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. "Don't go anywhere," he ordered. "I'll be back in a bit."  
  
As Blacke disappeared through the armory door, Sephiroth looked down at the split sword, absently tapping the tip of the Masamune against the floor. (He acts…childishly joyful…as if he's made a big discovery.) he thought. (Indeed.)   
  
In a sudden flash of anger, he gave the bottom half of the broken sword a sharp kick, sending it skidding across the room and clanging into a side wall. (I would have been 'discovered' a long time ago if that…prick hadn't barred me from anything and everything important. But…that doesn't appear to be so anymore.)  
  
Sephiroth raised the Masamune and gave it a couple of slow, crisscrossing swipes. (Take this katana where it was made…Wutai. Of course…the war.)  
  
(It's about time.)  
  
---------------  
  
  
Five o'clock. Sephiroth was still breezing through the base kata. He wasn't even concentrating on what he was doing anymore; his body knew the motions.  
  
Six o'clock. The armory master arrived at precisely the instant the second hand clicked onto the twelve, and was, needless to say, a bit surprised to see someone training already at that time. He said nothing, but merely went about his duty of inspecting the mounted weapons and making sure everything was in order.  
  
By that time, Sephiroth had begun to devise kata of his own and was steadily working through those, even going so far as to integrate them with the standard forms, performing them with such powerful and fluid movements that several times the armory master abandoned what he was doing to watch.  
  
Another half hour ticked by, and finally Sephiroth stopped, gazing up at the clock with irritation shadowing his Mako eyes. It wasn't that he could be late for guard duty waiting like this; he didn't start until eight. But just the waiting itself…   
  
(If I wasn't at the threshold of finally getting my chance, I would…)  
  
"Whatever the hell it was that couldn't have been brought to my office -- later in the day, I might add-- had better be monumentally important, Major Blacke, or you risk a severe demotion!"  
  
(President Shinra?) Sephiroth had heard the Shinra Company leader's voice only once before, but he could have picked out that harsh, stentorian bellowing anywhere.  
  
As the armory master looked up from the sheared blade he was about to question the teenager about, Sephiroth turned to find Blacke striding in well ahead of the stout, red-suited CEO, who was so magnificently incensed that he couldn't begin to take long enough draws of his cigar.  
  
"Again, I apologize, Mister President, but this could be…no…is monumentally important." He sounded like a giddy child; completely unbecoming for a person of his rank.  
  
They both stopped in front of Sephiroth, and Blacke moved a bit to the side to allow for a better introduction. "I found him in here training a couple hours ago, so I figured it would be just as good a time as any to inform him of what resulted with Sergeant Bailey last week. Then I wanted him to show me what that Wutaian monster could do, and…he cut the mythril sword I'd picked up clean in half."  
  
Shinra, who'd been staring coldly into Sephiroth's emerald Mako eyes in some attempt to sway the teenager to look away, snapped his attention momentarily to Blacke. "That's bullshit, Major. You don't cut mythril in half with another sword." He took another impossibly long draw from his cigar and resumed glowering at Sephiroth. "This scrawny-ass thing doesn't look like he could even cut butter, let alone mythril. Why in the hell are we letting kids like this into SOLDIER? I thought we'd set the standards a little higher."  
  
(A thing…)  
  
"The standards are plenty high, President Shinra. And you can see the split sword behind him…"  
  
"How the hell am I supposed to know this isn't a scam?"  
  
(A scam…)  
  
"Neither him nor I have anything to gain from trying to scam you on something like this. He's unranked, and I'm not looking to cheat my way any higher."  
  
"This albino kid probably needs to fake stuff like this so he'll get somewhere!"  
  
(Kid…fake…)  
  
"Albinos don't have green eyes, President, Sir. And not being smart, but isn't that getting off the matter?"  
  
"There is no damn matter! You dragged me out of my office at six-thirty in the morning to show me some sickly kid with a big flimsy sword that you claim cuts mythril, saying this is monumentally important?! I've had the Turks kill people for farces like this!"  
  
(Sickly…) Sephiroth, who'd thus far stood silently as Shinra insulted him, would take no more. His jaw tight, he brusquely turned from the two men and kicked the remaining -- and pointedly unnoticed by Shinra -- half of the blade away, which nearly buried itself in the on-looking armory master's foot. (I've taken enough insults! From Hojo, Bailey, now him…everyone else ignores me…I'll not have it anymore!)  
  
Without a word, Sephiroth stepped up to the swords that were propped against the wall, centering himself before them. Stirred rage had set his Mako eyes glowing like a pair of emerald suns.   
  
The Masamune made a wide, quicksilver slash…  
  
…And Shinra's tirade was silenced by the cacophony of seven mythril blades clattering to the floor, all of them cleaved in two.  
  
"Well…damn." Shinra seemed a shade deflated by that display. Abandoning Blacke, he approached Sephiroth, carelessly flicking forgotten ashes from his cigar onto the floor.   
  
The teenager, who had remained facing the wall, swung sharply about, his verdant orbs once again finding the President's dark eyes an equal match. In his grip, the Masamune practically hummed with the energy of its recent strike.  
  
"What was your name again?"  
  
(Bastard…insult me as if I weren't even present, then ask me my name after you see how foolish those insults were…) "Sephiroth."  
  
A scarcely perceptible wisp of recognition flitted across Shinra's stern old façade. "Yes…Sephiroth. Of course it is," he chuckled bemusedly. "Of course." He leisurely puffed on the cigar a moment, his infuriation over having been stolen from his plush office to see something he'd naturally thought worthless greatly sated by a show of power that had soundly laid his gruff protestations to rest. Finally, his eyes not leaving Sephiroth's, he barked, "Major Blacke, what was it you wanted with this kid?"  
  
Blacke hurriedly joined them, the subtle glimmer in his oceanic eyes belying the properly expressionless military mask he'd put on while he was around the head of the company that employed him. "I think he would be a great asset serving elsewhere, Mister President. As I am to understand, his former superior was arbitrarily restricting him to guard duty, but after seeing what he did with that katana…I can honestly say that, in regards to restraining him like that…that superior was the most incompetent ass I have ever had the displeasure of being aware of."  
  
Shinra shrugged and broke Sephiroth's gaze. "Send him to the Academy, then. He'll be good for Wutai in a few months."  
  
"Wonderful, President Shinra, but…if you don't mind my saying so, wasn't that an awful quick change of heart?"  
  
Shinra, who'd started for the door the moment his sudden decision was voiced, didn't bother to stop as he answered, "I've got an eye for cons, Major, and he just proved to me this wasn't one."   
  
Between puffs of his cigar, Shinra added under his breath, "And now that I know what he is…I think it's time to see if Professor Hojo's so-called super-SOLDIER can win me a war."  
  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
A/N: It's been two months since I updated?! Good grief, I didn't think it'd been that long. Well, for those of you who were patient enough to wait for this chapter, thank you! I hope it was worth the wait, although I'm a little dissatisfied with it myself 'cause it feels kinda rushed at the end. I'd like to try and get one more chapter up before my winter break ends, but I'm not gonna promise anything, 'cause then I probably won't. ^_~  
  
Oh, and I'm sure cutting through mythril like that sounds a bit extreme, but I'm basing that on something I read somewhere that said the Masamune had the 'power to maul anything and everything,' or something like that -- mythril included. I don't know.  
  
I finally put an email addy up in my bio, so feel free to email me if you want.  
  
Thank you!! 


	11. Duel

Disclaimer: Square -- Big giant company with big giant piles of money and big giant all-inclusive rights to anything Final Fantasy.  

                     Me -- None of the above.

 A/N:  Once again, this is late.  A thousand apologies for that.  One massive, colossal case of writer's block.  Enormous.  …I'm sorry.  Feel free to throw whatever household appliance you may have handy at me.  Go ahead.  Maybe getting clocked in the head with a toaster would permanently take care of that writer's block…

Incidentally, I got a proverbial kick in the ass over this particular bout of braindeath  (Can you do that?  Actually get over it?  I mean, it _is dead…) after I beat Seph in Kingdom Hearts.  It's sad that it takes something like that to get me going again, but at the same time, so very wonderful. ^_^_

Oh, and I also apologize if the spacing's kinda stupid.  I wrote this in a different program than I normally do.  'Kay, I'll shut up now.             

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(Green.  The color of jade, leaves, emeralds…acid…)

Sephiroth sat alone at a small circular table in the corner of the Academy cafeteria, staring placidly into the tall glass of water before him.  His reflection in the clear liquid was small, blurry, and undefined at best, but his eyes, recently lit by a fresh, albeit miniscule, dose of Mako, shone like a pair of magic materia, hot with energy and neon-bright.  They were also both eerily hollow, yet unfathomably deep at the same time, endowing them with a haunted glare that he'd been well aware of since he was a small child.  He had also decided long ago that he hated that perpetual glow, because it only served as a reminder of what -- or rather, who -- had caused it in the first place.

(Nearly seven months it's been since I've seen him, yet I am not allowed to put him out of my mind.)

Suddenly losing his desire even for such a meager thing as a glass of water, he gave a soft snort and shoved the glass to the center of the table.  He gazed at it a moment longer, contemplating what to do -- as a borderline SOLDIER First-Class, he was now allowed a fair deal of time on his own -- before deciding to just return to his room until yet another bout of tactical training exercises commenced in another hour and a half.  He figured remaining in the cafeteria wouldn't make much sense; he couldn't even remember why he'd come here in the first place.  He wasn't at all hungry, and, although there were plenty of other people to strike up a conversation with if he cared to -- which he didn't -- he would only end up staring at the water again, or perhaps the wall, thinking about too many things, trivial or not, and making himself upset.

He shot sharply to his feet, garnering furtive glances from a trio of lower Second-Class chatting at a nearby table.  But no sooner had he started to push in his chair than someone loudly announced the arrival of a superior officer, initiating a brief cacophony of scraping, thudding chairs and scuffing boots as everyone present, Sephiroth included, snapped to attention facing the burgundy, double doors of the entrance.

The officer present, a tall, athletically-built man in his early forties with short, jet-black hair and the uniform decoration of a lieutenant general, stood not three feet into the room, scanning the mechanically sobered faces with pitch-dark eyes until he found the object of his perusal and ordered the SOLDIERs at ease.

"SOLDIER Sephiroth," he said as he neared the platinum-haired young man, completely ignoring the handful of other SOLDIERs who'd abandoned their various conversations out of curiosity and were congregating a few feet away, not even attempting to disguise their eavesdropping.  "Second-Class, Fourth Level, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Come with me."  The officer gave the simple command and strode back out of the cafeteria, snapping at the disappointed little gathering that if they wanted something interesting to listen to, they should get the hell out of SOLDIER and find some gossipy old grandmas to chat with.  As Sephiroth followed him out, he couldn't help but let an amused half-smirk quirk his lips.

The officer stopped when they were both outside the cafeteria, moving to stand in an apparently useless, unoccupied little alcove on the opposite side of the hall.  Sephiroth joined him, not even bothering to be formal and wait to be told.

"Lieutenant General Alen Merser," he introduced himself.  "I am the current highest-ranking officer in SOLDIER, but I'm sure you haven't heard much of me, since for some asinine reason, the Company's elected to relegate me to desk jobs and training here at the Academy while the younger officers have it out in Wutai...but that's beside the point.  I stopped being pissed-off at that a long time ago."  

He paused for a moment, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  "Anyway, I just got a phone call about you from none other than President Shinra himself.  Seems he's taken notice of the fact that in seven months you've managed to best most every officer here, the majority of them being twice your age and having twice as much experience, make our tactical simulations look like they were designed by infants, and go from a nobody here on recommendation to a SOLDIER Second-Class, Fourth Level that the newbies are scared shitless of and the officers have a healthy respect for.  I suppose someone who can do all that and shear through swords and rifle barrels would get such high recognition, eh?"

(I should hope so.)  "Yes, Sir.  It's a shame my first commanding officer didn't care to acknowledge my abilities, Sir; otherwise I would have done all of that much sooner."  (But I couldn't help it that he was a no-talent, dead-end hack who was too threatened by me to give me any credit.)

"You've got a lot of confidence.  That's good; you'll need it."  Merser chuckled dryly and folded his arms across his broad chest.  "See, it seems that the President wants you in Wutai, pronto.  He wouldn't even tell me why, but he wants you ranked and shipped off by the end of the week.  I don't know where he gets off sending all you young brats over there, or why he requested you in particular, regardless of the skill you have with a blade and all...but I'm not really in a place to question him about any of it.  In any case...Sephiroth...he said it was my responsibility to see to it that you get to First-Class A.S.A.P., and there's really only two ways to do that, one of which would require you spending the rest of the year -- or more -- here and making the rank the old-fashioned way, which obviously isn't an option in this case.  The other way..."  He trailed off, letting his gaze wander from Sephiroth, and heaved a gusty sigh.  "...The other way...is a procedure we don't commonly put into practice anymore.  Since President Shinra wants it, however, I have to oblige him."  

Lieutenant General Merser met Sephiroth's luminous emerald eyes again, his expression totally devoid of the subtle geniality it had only minutes ago possessed.  "A duel."

The cold glow of his Mako orbs betrayed the heat of thrilled anticipation that melted into Sephiroth's veins at the sound of those two words.  "A duel, Sir."  Even his voice did nothing to relay his true feeling.

"Yes...a duel.  A long time ago, when a SOLDIER's commendation was questionable, or when something dire necessitated it, he would be able to secure that commendation if he defeated an officer, of higher rank than him but lower than or equal to the rank the SOLDIER in question was trying to obtain, undeniably besting him in a one-on-one, hand-to-hand fight.  We rarely do that anymore, not only because in most cases, it's not necessary, but because it frequently got out of hand, and either the officer or the junior SOLDIER were killed or severely injured.  It usually wasn't because the junior was unskilled and unable to fight the superior properly, but the superiors tended to get madder than all hell and go after the juniors unprovoked, and of course he'd have to defend himself, and...ah, I'm sure you get the idea.  We've pretty much eliminated it 'cause it got too ugly."    

"I see, Sir."

"Well, to make a long story short, then…since I'm currently the highest-ranked SOLDIER and one of the few officers you haven't beaten hand-to-hand, you will duel me.  Go get that hell-forged katana of yours and report to the courtyard in half an hour."  

In the blink of an eye, Merser's expression darkened from sober to deadpan heartlessness.  "But know this," he began, his suddenly cool tone more than a little threatening, "As do all the other officers here, I respect you and what you can do, as far as you'd like to take that.  I am also agreeing to this because President Shinra demanded it, and as much as I may think he's an incompetent, money-grubbing ass, he is the president, and what he says goes.  But sword-shearing katana or no, _I do not fear you_.  And I will not hold back, just because this is something the president wants.  You'll use all your skills, or you'll get badly hurt and fail miserably.  That is a damn serious promise…Sephiroth."

Merser left at that, brushing past the young man and marching back down the hall.  Sephiroth remained where he was a moment longer, moving out a step to watch the officer walk away.  "Likewise...Sir," he hissed.  

                                        --------------------------------------------------

The courtyard was much like the armory, only twice the size and half as orientated to weapon display and storage.  The floor was concrete -- cold, archaic, and unforgiving, clearly meant to teach a SOLDIER how not to fall or stumble.  The walls, in stark contrast to the somber, steel-gray floor, were white-washed brick, and proudly bore numerous scars and gouges from previous training sessions and duels.  Several dozen swords, mostly ornate showpieces too dull and unbalanced to be useful in actual combat, adorned those walls, intermingled with a handful of elaborate, obsidian-hued rifles, which were also, for the most part, useless.  

Sephiroth had spent much of his time at the Academy here.  In between the tactical training sessions and simulations, he had frequently returned to the courtyard, Masamune in hand, to further perfect a skill and technique he already knew so well.  The feel of that proud katana in his hands -- a powerful, quicksilver extension of his own body, he'd often thought -- pleased him when not much else would.  Having it with him, in his control, made him temporarily forget all else, all the hell he had had to endure to get far enough to receive what was so rightfully his.  

But now, he knew, would be the last time he would be in this place for a very long time, if not forever.  He had little doubt that the lieutenant general was exceptionally skilled; he was the highest-ranked SOLDIER, and it didn't require much reasoning to realize he must have attained that rank through personal achievement, and not this rare, direly-necessitated dueling.  However, little doubt though he had for the officer's skill, he had absolutely no doubt about his own.

He would best Merser as he had so many others and would be in Wutai in a matter of days, just as he wanted, and just as President Shinra demanded.

Sephiroth arrived at the courtyard before Merser, Masamune sheathed at his hip.  His slender fingers idly gripped the hilt as he entered, taking note of the twenty or so lower officers and the scattering of enlisted that were gathered opposite the door.  Nobody acknowledged him as he entered, although several of the younger SOLDIERs visibly cringed at the sight of him.  

(Witnesses, I suppose...perhaps mere spectators...)

He reached the center of the courtyard and prepared to wait, but a split second after he had come to a halt the ancient steel doors behind him squealed open, and in strode Lieutenant General Merser.  A massive, crystalline broad sword, set with a single piece of coldly glittering spell materia, was strapped across his back.  That same frozen indifference that had so spontaneously hardened his face half an hour ago remained, a granite mask not easily read or seen through.

"Well, since I'm sure I'm not the only one who wants to get this over with," he began, shooting a brief glance beyond Sephiroth and pointing toward the cluster of waiting SOLDIERs, "I'll explain how this works.  These duels require witnesses, which I shouldn't have to explain are those officers and enlisted, and they'll make sure this doesn't get out of hand.  And speaking of getting out of hand, no intentional killing strikes or attacking when the other is down."

"No intentional killing strikes, Sir?  Since we're using real weapons, wouldn't there be a chance for accidental killing strikes?"

"Not against me, there isn't," Merser replied with a haughty little smirk.  "We use real weapons because it's pretty much a given that at this point in SOLDIER, you should know well enough how to defend yourself against them.  And if you don't, then…I guess you didn't deserve the chance for a promotion after all.  It isn't like this is a melee."

"Of course not."

"Just remember what I said…Sephiroth.  This is mandated by President Shinra, but I'm not going to let you just walk away with a promotion.  If you're going to exceed my rank, then you need to prove to me you deserve it."

"I do, and I will, Sir," Sephiroth replied evenly, drawing the Masamune.  

"We'll see about that, young man."  Merser reached back for his sword, easily pulling it free and bringing it over his shoulder.

Sephiroth lashed out with Masamune even as Merser brought the broad sword to bear, a bit angered but somehow not surprised when the officer's sword held, halting the katana with a hollow clang.

(I expected as much.)  Sephiroth lowered the katana and took a step back.  (Someone of his caliber would know enough to not bring a blade I can cut through.)  "A fine blade, Sir," he growled.

"I'm glad you like it," Merser laughed derisively.  "I told you you'd have to work for this.  That monster of yours isn't going to cut through my Diamond Buster Sword like mythril or steel.  Now…let's start this…and see if you can beat me the old-fashioned way.  En garde!"

Merser launched into a bold offensive rush, whipping the massive sword in a singing flurry of criss-crossing slashes, forcing Sephiroth back on his heels as the young man deftly intercepted every strike.  He narrowly ducked beneath Merser's last high swipe and thrust the Masamune straight up.  Feeling the two swords catch, he quickly switched to a two-handed grip and pushed the blade out and away, shoving the Buster Sword back as he snapped to his feet in a half-spin.

Sephiroth didn't waste a second, bringing the Masamune in a descending diagonal slash, swatting Merser's abrupt horizontal swing away and nimbly countering with one of his own.  The officer sprang back, but Sephiroth followed, plunging toward him with a hail of rapid, blurred slashes and stabs of his own.  Merser was hard-pressed to parry successively, difficult as it was to continually follow the young man's motions, propelled as they were by a dangerously controlled, simmering fury.

Sephiroth knew, even as he fell into a definite rhythm, that he'd be leaving himself wide open to counterattack now if he let up or allowed a flaw to disrupt his movements, so he hastily decided to break his own momentum.  There was no room for any weakness or miscalculation; he'd leave nothing for the skilled officer to exploit.

He cracked the Masamune hard against the cutting edge of the horizontally-level Buster Sword.  Then, in one smooth motion, he lunged forward and ground the katana's flat against the Buster Sword's, forcing the huge blade low, and planted a foot lightly atop the angled flat, vaulting from it in a wide-arcing back flip that put him well out of Merser's immediate range.

Having spotted the telltale flare in the officer's materia as he leapt, Sephiroth landed in a one-handed handspring and brought the Masamune to bear the instant his feet touched the floor again, wheeling it in a complete circle in front of him and deflecting the crimson burst of fire that exploded at him.

(That was only…the weakest Fire spell…ah, damn!)

No sooner than he'd stopped the whirling silver blade did Mercer rush through the dissipating cinders of the Fire spell he'd invoked, ramming the broad side of his sword into Sephiroth's stomach, pinning the katana's flat and the young man's arm as well, driving him brutally hard to the floor.

Several tense moments passed, eliciting numerous remarks of both concern and derision from the onlookers as Sephiroth remained where he'd fallen, his emerald eyes shut and his breathing heavy as he tried to recover the air that had been knocked from his lungs.  Merser, in accordance with the unwritten rule that he couldn't finish the duel as he would in normal combat, lowered his blade and stepped back to wait for the young man to concede or resume the fight.  He readied himself for the latter.

(Stupid…so…damn…obvious…)  Sephiroth slowly, carefully, sat up, mentally berating himself for falling for such an elementary ploy.  He opened his eyes and glanced down at his sword arm, keenly aware of a sharp, hot pain that burned all the way through his shoulder, noting with more than a passing interest that he still held the Masamune fast despite such a tremendous impact.  Had his grip on it been that unrelenting, or had the magnificent katana simply not allowed itself to be dropped…?

Shaking such foolish thoughts from his head, he rose staggeringly to his feet, switching the Masamune to his left hand as he did so.  The onlookers' comments gradually quieted as he looked first to them, then deliberately shifted his gaze to the Lieutenant General.  The officer let his mask slip for a split second to offer him a vaguely arrogant smirk.

"Nice little trick, there, young man," he said.  "But if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were underestimating me.  A move like that…you weren't thinking I'd actually let that window of opportunity slide?  Don't tell me SOLDIER's gotten so bad that they don't even teach basic strategy…"

"SOLDIER has nothing to do with it, Sir.  It was a simple lapse in judgment, and there will never be another like it."

"You'll be dead if there is.  I used the flat of the blade there; were we on the field, you would've been cut in two, just like all those blades you demolished."  Merser shifted impatiently.  "Now…I'm sure you're hurting, but I'd bet money there's no chance you'd concede to something that simple."

(I will not concede…period.)  "No chance in hell, Sir."  Absently flexing his rapidly numbing arm, Sephiroth narrowed his hotly glowing green orbs and pointed the Masamune straight at the officer.  "I _will_ be promoted, and I _will_ go to Wutai.  And not because President Shinra demanded it; I deserve that much, and I will prove to you…and whoever else doubts me…that I do!"  He glared down the length of the katana, the intense jade boring deep into the officer's dark eyes.  The ink-black eyes, so much like Hojo's…

(…No.  Enough.)  He snapped the katana once to the side and brought again into a two-handed grip, a scarcely perceptible cringe passing over his features at the movement.  "Then, Sir, if you don't mind…I'd like to finish this."  Raising the sword level near his shoulder, he slid into a ready stance.

"Of course."  Merser settled back a bit. 

Sephiroth started this round, snapping forward in an ethereal flash of platinum, driving the Masamune so forcefully into the Buster Sword with a swift diagonal slash that Merser knew would have knocked the giant blade clean from his hands had he not had such a fierce grip on it.  He rocked backward further still as the young man drove hard at him with a triplicate of the same brutal strikes.

"Ridiculous," he murmured, barely deflecting a sudden low swipe that would have taken him off his feet.  "The force of my attack had to crush something, yet he retaliates as if that attack hadn't even happened.  Perhaps another..."

"No more spells, Sir," Sephiroth suddenly interrupted, his cadence unfaltering.  "We're done."  

"What?"  The officer dodged another high strike and swerved to the side.  "No one's..."

"..You will."  Sephiroth fluidly altered Masamune's course to follow Merser, purposely curving the blade to sail above the officer's head to bring it this time in a sharply rising arc.  He whirled with it but stopped the blade straight in the air for an instant - an instant in which Merser could have sworn the katana began to glow a faint blue - before snapping straight into the air, turning another revolution to face the officer.  

Meeting the lieutenant general's mildly startled gaze, he held it rapt for the split second it took him to reverse the blade in his hands and drive the razor tip downward fiercely against the defensively-raised Buster Sword…and piercing it. 

With a sharp snap followed by an eerily musical cacophony as of splintering glass, the Diamond Buster Sword shattered in a burst of iridescent crystal shards.  

The dislodged spell materia clanked to the floor, bouncing several times before rolling to a stop against Sephiroth's boot not a second after he'd landed.  Ignoring the rising murmur among the witnesses, he stooped to retrieve the green orb, and after sheathing the Masamune, crunched across the short distance of splintered diamond to hold it out to a duly shocked Lieutenant General Merser, who was gazing stupidly at the ragged remains of his prized Buster Sword.

"What…in the bloodiest hell…was that…?"  He flung the useless sword handle to the floor and looked up at Sephiroth.  "Even…diamond…doesn't stand up to you?!"

"Obviously not…Sir," the young man replied without intonation.  "Your materia."

Merser slowly took the proffered sphere from Sephiroth's hand, turning it over a few times between his fingers, his weathered face contorting in deep concentration.  He finally looked to Sephiroth again, having apparently arrived at his hard-sought conclusion, and a huge smile, this one not of sarcasm or malevolence, turned up his lips.

"Well, I'll be doubly damned!" he declared.  "No one's ever stood up to the Diamond Buster Sword so well, let alone stand up to me like that.  And destroying the damn thing, too!"

"I told you I would earn this victory as you said, Sir."

"Well…shit.  Heh."  Merser shook his head and tucked the materia in his pants pocket.  "I have to concede then, seeing as how you wrecked my blade in record time.  Even with that little slip-up…you've got me convinced.  I think I need to give the president a call and tell him I'm not the highest-ranked anymore."

"Sir?"

"I've only dueled a junior once before, and that was ten years ago.  He didn't stand a chance against me, but I did allow him a menial increase in rank because he showed so much potential.  You, though…I think it's safe to say you've gone way beyond just having potential.  You've taken your skill with that katana and rammed it so far down my throat I'd be a blind ass not to give you proper due."

"Seriously, though, Sephiroth…"  The lieutenant general's smile faded into an expression treading a thin line between sad and proud.  "I'd be lying if I said this didn't piss me off to lose to you.  I'm madder than all hell.  But being the military man that I am, I do know enough to put my feelings aside in matters concerning SOLDIER and its leadership.  You defeated me, and by rights of the duel code, you ascend to my rank or higher.  I can tell you already know which you're getting."

"They'd better not chain you to a desk when you get back from Wutai, though, or they'll have me to deal with."      

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A/N: Can you tell I don't write fights very often?  Ugh…yuck.  Bleh.  .

I am trying my hardest to get back on a regular updating schedule.  I've got a billion and one things going on right now, not to mention all these nagging little fic ideas that have a nasty habit of distracting me from this fic…  Anyway, I hope not to disappoint, so for all of you who so kindly read and review this…thank you, and I'll try not to keep you waiting so long again!  


	12. Visitor

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII is SO not mine.  
  
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The thunderous thrumming of an arriving helicopter. The low, continuous droning of countless voices and conversations, some aristocratic and put-on, most idle SOLDIER and trooper chit-chat. The faint strains of Shinra's surprisingly cheerful and upbeat marching anthem.  
  
He heard it all. Even in the seclusion of a spacious dressing room off of the cavernous Shinra auditorium, his Mako-enhanced hearing picked up every sound of the impending, hastily arranged ceremony to formally commemorate the Company's young prodigy before shipping him off to the killing fields of Wutai. It was all for him, and while it did invoke a sense of the pride he'd promised himself on so many occasions, he truly wished the formalities like this would be kept to a minimum.  
  
This importance…he wanted it. As well as the fear, reverence, or whatever else went with it…he just preferred it all be expressed with less ostentation and applause. He could already these social affairs, as frequent as he was sure they'd be from now on, would be tedious. All of this nonsense accomplished next to nothing anyway.  
  
Sephiroth stood before a full-length mirror, gazing solemnly back at his reflection. He'd been standing so for quite some time; not that he had suddenly taken an interest in gawking at his own appearance, though. He had elected to choose attire other than that wretched blue uniform, and after he'd changed, checked it all in the mirror to make sure everything was in order. Somewhere in the process of doing so, he'd gotten lost in a thought he didn't remember the inception of, and had remained thus.  
  
A sharp, sudden staccato on the door dragged him out of his reverie. Mildly annoyed at being torn from a notion he couldn't even recall, he answered with an intentionally brusque, "Yes?"  
  
"I apologize for disturbing you, but, um…I have a visitor here who insists on seeing you. Right now," a timid voice explained.  
  
Deep-seated intuition and a tinge of pessimism gave him an almost unfortunate certainty who the visitor was, and to say it didn't just totally shoot anything remotely positive about the day all to hell would have been a catastrophic understatement.  
  
Heaving a gusty, aggravated sigh, Sephiroth broke away from the mirror and started for the door. No less than five steps away, he heard a quiet, hastily mumbled protest retorted by a harsh barking reply out in the hall…and halted. A scowl darkened his pale features as the door was flung wide, and, minus the owner of the meek voice who he assumed had been some rookie trooper, one ebon-eyed scientist unceremoniously invited himself in.  
  
"I don't recall allowing you in here," Sephiroth growled at the glowering little man. He didn't budge.  
  
Nudging the portal shut behind him and moving what little bit he could into the room as his son's steadfast frame allowed, Hojo deliberately fiddled with his glasses and returned the icy glare he was being greeted with. "And I don't recall needing permission to see my own son," he snapped.  
  
"You do now," the young man asserted coolly.  
  
"Is that so?" Hojo mused aloud.  
  
"Quite."  
  
"I see." The scientist bobbed back on his heels and clasped his hands behind him. "All right then…may I be permitted to speak with you for a few of your precious minutes, before you formally and honorably ascent to your rightful, much-lauded and esteemed rank with personal graces from the mighty President himself? May I be allowed the privilege?"  
  
In a heated resurgence of the brazen temper he had regrettably inherited from, or developed in response to, his father, Sephiroth gruffly shot back, "You're already in here and wasting my time, you ass; don't be condescending with me!"  
  
A bitter smirk curled up the corners of Hojo's thin lips. "Oh ho," he chuckled, "You've certainly gotten quite caustic, Sephiroth." His bottomless black orbs hardened with a sharp steel edge that shadowed the cruel mirth on his sallow face. "Since when does a son address his father like that, hmm?"  
  
"If you'd ever been a true father to me, I'd treat you as such, Hojo." The spontaneous burst of rage subsided, but his words were still rigid and laced with cold, smoldering fire. His jaw tightened and he pierced the scientist's ebony gaze with a searing jade one of his own.   
  
A long moment passed without a word spoken between the two. The animosity was tangible.  
  
The intense silence was brought to an end by a brief, resounding chorus of laughter erupting from the auditorium. As it died away, Sephiroth sneered with disgust and turned from Hojo. He returned to the mirror. "Speak your piece then, and get out. I don't have all day."  
  
"Of course not. Neither do I. I have to make sure I get to my seat on time. Heavens forbid I miss the proudest moment in my son's life."  
  
Sephiroth made no comment. That didn't even warrant the thought for a reply.  
  
Seeing that he wasn't going to earn retaliation off of his last remark, Hojo let it drop and, now that he'd been more or less allowed into the room, moved in further, stopping just behind Sephiroth. He peered around the young man and into the mirror as well, taking careful note of his new, more…intimidating…attire.  
  
"Goodness, Sephiroth…such a get-up! All that black leather…are you supposed to be death incarnate or something? Did Shinra's standard uniform suit your lofty taste no longer?"  
  
"If it comes to it, yes," Sephiroth replied, exasperated. "And if that's how you care to put it…no, it didn't." He stepped away and to the side to keep a better view of the shifty scientist, distrustful as he yet was of the man being behind him. "Now get to whatever point it is you have, Hojo. Don't think I have enough respect for you not to kick you the hell out of here."  
  
Hojo squinted hard at Sephiroth, torn between whether or not he should simply comply, or throw more kindling into the young man's smoldering temper and set it ablaze with another cutting retort. He didn't need to read into his tone or expression to know he was perfectly serious about forcefully expelling him; it was the ideal reaction, and wholly expected.  
  
It was just that bickering with Sephiroth like this was almost fun. Testing his son's temper as children so often test their parents' authority…he enjoyed it. And it was part of his studies anyway, so he was half-tempted to egg Sephiroth on, but some shred of sense convinced him not to…for now, at least.  
  
The scientist shrugged his narrow shoulders and off-handedly conceded. "I came to congratulate you," he said, fishing around in one of the oversized pockets on his lab coat. "And give you a little present, if you'll take it." He found the object of his search and drew it out, offering it to Sephiroth in an open palm.  
  
A single piece of shimmering green materia.  
  
Sephiroth's skeptic glare shifted from Hojo's face to the apple green orb and back again several time. (I've got free supply of whatever materia I choose now, and he knows that. What kind of…farce is this supposed to be?)  
  
"Well, it's not going to jump into your hand, Sephiroth. Do you want it or not?"  
  
"What type is it?" Sephiroth queried, even as he reluctantly raised a black-gloved hand to take it.  
  
"A type SOLDIER will never give you the opportunity to have otherwise." The scientist's black orbs lit with amusement when he saw a flash of recognition cross the young man's face…just as his slender fingers grazed the materia's smooth surface.  
  
Sephiroth involuntarily recoiled, jerking his hand back as if the orb was an irate, snapping animal. "Ultima," he hissed through clenched teeth, shooting Hojo an infuriated scowl. "You…bastard."  
  
"You don't like my gift? Here I thought you would, since you used it so exceptionally well," Hojo mocked. "The Science Department paid quite a sum to get ahold of such a high-level piece of materia, you know. Ultima is a very rare find, even for Shinra. You should be honored I'm offering it to you for nothing."  
  
"Shut up!" Sephiroth barked, violently swatting the orb from Hojo's extended hand for emphasis. It ricocheted from the mirror frame, clinked to the floor, and rolled between them to come to a stop in a corner near the door. "I honor nothing where you're concerned!"   
  
"Disrespecting an elder isn't very becoming of SOLDIER's soon-to-be general."  
  
"Go to hell!" Sephiroth snatched up the Masamune -- which was now encased in a brand-new, lacquered ebony sheath -- from where it was propped against the wall, and fastened it to settle on his hip. He stormed toward the door, and without another word, yanked it open and headed off for the auditorium, leaving a maliciously grinning Hojo alone in the room where he hadn't been wanted in the first place.  
  
Laughing quietly to himself at the results of his verbal prodding, the scientist moved to retrieve the roughly discarded materia, absently tucking the emerald orb back in his pocket. "Yes, yes," he cackled, "Should that happen…I'll see you there…"  
  
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A/N: Yes, this one's quite a bit shorter than the last, oh…four chapters, but I had to get this posted before I added another week to the wait. The next chapter will continue directly off of this one, and probably won't be very long either, I'm afraid… -_-' 


	13. A Last Shot

Disclaimer: FFVII is not mine. *sigh* There, are you happy now?

A/N: Whee! A longer chapter! (Pointless, yes…I just thought I'd mention it. ^^;)

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(He treated me like a damn lab rat my entire childhood…ordered me to join SOLDIER…and now he mocks me after I've made it so far in it? That…)

"…Son of a bitch!" Sephiroth hollered, stopping mid-stride to slam the flat of his hand hard against the wall. He was too far from the auditorium yet to be heard over the unceasing din of chatter and rousing band music, but no doubt -- and hopefully -- close enough to his abandoned dressing room for the subject of his outburst to hear him.

"Tsk tsk. Language like that's too crude for such a pretty young man, Sephiroth."

At the sound of the chiding female voice, Sephiroth looked up to see a gaudily made-up woman, her bronzy blonde hair tied up in a fashionably unkempt chignon and her low-cut, skintight crimson dress leaving little to the imagination, approaching him from the direction of the auditorium. The stiletto heels of her shoes clicked a hollow, steady rhythm in the otherwise vacant hallway. She looked a bit familiar, but he couldn't quite put a name with the face.

"Excuse me?" He lowered his hand and stepped away from the wall to face her. Judging from her air, she had to be an executive or someone else of importance, so he knew his brusqueness probably fell way beyond the bounds of politesse, but irritation toward Hojo dissolved any chance of him really caring.

"I said you're too cute to be trying to cuss like an old sailor," she reiterated. She halted an arm's length away, planting a finely-manicured hand on her hip and arching a golden brow at him when she noticed his cross expression soften with a hint of incredulity. "What, no one's ever complimented your looks before? Are you kidding?"

Unsure of how to respond to that, Sephiroth said nothing, but he allowed the anger to melt from his face. He replaced it with the stoic mask he'd fabricated as a small child…the mask he'd donned so often whenever Hojo's, or anyone else's, ridicule or unconcern got to be too much.

"Ah, whatever." The woman waggled her other hand in the air dismissively. "The President just sent me back here to make sure you were ready and all that. So, Sephiroth…" The name brought an extra curl to her vermilion lips. "Are you ready?"

"I don't see why not," he replied. "An unexpected visitor delayed me a bit, but I'm not unprepared…for any of this."

She laughed -- a harsh, brassy laugh that no man the least bit sober would find tolerable. "Your commendation ceremony, and you already have the right attitude about this crap," she remarked. "No preparation necessary…just sit there looking interested and important, and when they call your name, stand up and give a spiel about gratitude, glory, power, whatever…wait out the applause, thank everybody again, and leave."

(I'll be looking forward to the 'leave' part the whole time.)

"Well, I can tell you don't need any more pointers." The woman straightened and turned partially away, clearly meaning to return to the auditorium. "I'll show you to your place, then," she offered. "It sounds like the crowd's starting to die down." Indeed, the cacophony seemed to be very slowly quieting, a single, stentorian voice attempting to quell it.

As she started back, Sephiroth followed, ignoring the third set of footfalls he heard pick up a good distance behind his.

"You recognize me," he said, matching the surprisingly brisk pace she held despite those atrocious shoes.

"Well sure," she scoffed. "There aren't exactly a lot of people who fit your description, you know."

(No, I wouldn't suppose…you, on the other hand…I could go to any street corner or slum brothel…)

"I'm Scarlet, Head of Weapons Development. And I can tell you don't really give a shit about that." She belted out that awful laugh again. "Ah, whatever. I don't deal with SOLDIER directly anyway, so you probably won't see a whole lot of me."

Stopping in front of the nondescript door that led to the now rapidly calming auditorium, Scarlet casually swiped a drifted strand of gold behind her ear. "Just go all the way past the executive seats to the other side of the podium, and sit next to…oh, what the hell was his name…? Oh…Merser. Yes, the lieutenant general. And like I said, just try and look interested until the president announces you. Believe me, it's a struggle sometimes," she groaned, rolling her azure eyes.

She walked inside, but Sephiroth paused a split second to look back at Hojo, who was approaching the auditorium to take his place as well. He had nothing to say to the man, but as the scientist brushed by him through the door, which Scarlet had left ajar, he sneered, "I love you too, Sephiroth."

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"Colleagues…honorable SOLDIERs and members of the armed forces…I thank you, and welcome you, to this impromptu commencement…"

Not five minutes into President Shinra's opening speech, and already Sephiroth felt ready to doze off. He maintained what composure he could, restraining his expression from toppling over the fine line it tread between blank consciousness and catatonic slavering. 

(Seriously…)

His paled green eyes drifted over the gathered assembly, idly taking in the conglomerate of spectators. The quintuplet of Turks, Shinra's glorified enforcers, sat in the front row, and would have easily been taken for a group of stone-faced lawyers in tailored navy suits had it not been for the faint bulge of gun holsters beneath their coats. Behind them, occupying a good three-fourths of the seats on both sides, was a sea of blue- and red-uniformed SOLDIERs and troopers, as well as a sprinkling of security guards, most of whom looked no more thrilled about being here than Sephiroth felt…and the ceremony wasn't even for them. Beyond them still were a couple dozen expensively-dressed men and women, no doubt business partners and other petty executives within Shinra's hierarchy.

Above it all, he noticed a distinct lack of security staff aside from those in the crowd. A lone guard stood at either end of the stage, near the one door on each side that led to the halls and staging rooms. The main entrance, straight back from where President Shinra was speaking, was unwatched. 

While few people would have the idiocy to be distracted by the lack of security presence and try and cause a disruption, only to find nearly two hundred amassed military personnel -- even at that, a small fraction of the Company's entire force -- waiting for them…he just found it a little odd, especially since he had this vague, gnawing intuition at the back of his mind that something would come of it. 

Stifling a tremendous sigh, Sephiroth glanced to the side, past Merser, past…what was his name?…Heidegger, to catch Hojo throwing a subtle smirk his way. The scientist's ink-black orbs betrayed no emotion behind the glower.

"…And so, ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to present to you the brilliant young man who will lead us to victory over Wutai, SOLDIER's first ever commended general…"

Hojo looked away, his stare having been discovered. Sephiroth's jade eyes burned.

"Sephiroth!"

All eyes snapped up, all heads turned…for the name did not come from Shinra.

It took the silver-haired young man but a second to locate the speaker, snapping his intense gaze from Hojo to the rear of the auditorium. Storm-dark anger tightened his handsome features as he realized his intuition had come true…and emerald pierced hard, unforgiving flint.

"Good to see you're so happy to see me again. Maybe I can freeze that look on your fine little face…eh, boy?" Clad in an ill-fitting dress uniform and armed with a short sword and standard-issue pistol -- which was aimed not at the president but at Sephiroth -- was none other than Bailey.

"How in the damn bloody hell did he get in here?" Shinra bellowed, his lit gray eyes darting from doorway to doorway. 

"I trained half the damn guard, Shinra! Don't think I don't know how to deal with 'em!" Bailey, without lowering the pistol, slid the short sword from its simple sheath and held it forward enough for all to get a clear view of the crimson gore that heavily tarnished it. Several in the audience screamed in horror and the whole of the SOLDIERs and troopers present shot to their feet, those that were armed snapping pistols from their holsters, meaning to shoot the disgraced officer where he stood for murdering their comrades. The lone pair of true guards actually inside the auditorium rushed from their positions hear the two side exits and moved halfway down the central aisle toward the sergeant, raising their ebon rifles and taking aim in unison.

Sergeant Bailey dropped both of them in a heartbeat with two well-aimed head shots, the faintly smoking pistol aimed again at Sephiroth even before the second shell casing clinked to the floor.

A young woman sitting near the slain guards fainted, and a handful of others in the vicinity looked ready to. SOLDIERs were in an uproar, the younger troopers were at a loss of what to do, the Turks were looking for orders, and the lot of Shinra management was livid.

"Turks! What are you waiting for? A bloody invitation?" President Shinra snapped, his heavy voice barely audible over the din.

"Can it, fat-ass!" Bailey barked in reply, briefly jerking the pistol in the president's direction. "Your blue-suited bootlickers better stay put, or else I'll make this a presidential assassination, too!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Now Scarlet got involved, her rouged cheeks flushing as crimson as her dress. She rose and joined the president at the podium.

"Just taking care of some unfinished business." The twisted furl of bloodthirsty amusement on the sergeant's lips instantly turned sour. "I'll be damned to all the hells twice before this arrogant little silver-haired bastard takes over SOLDIER!"

Sephiroth rose deliberately, impervious to the gun barrel trained on him, his glare held fast to Bailey's. "You don't quit, do you…Sergeant?" His words, low and even, were greatly quieter than Shinra's last outburst, yet somehow held some unknown authority that caused the raucous confusion and outrage to subside. Most of the people fell silent, once again averting their attention to the unorthodox young man, yet not putting Bailey out of view entirely.

"You got me suspended from SOLDIER, you damn freak!" A strange pallor settled over the officer's weathered features, a fever of insanity illuminating his hard flint orbs. "SOLDIER was my life, dammit! It's all I had! Hell no! Don't think I'll let you get away with that!"

"Suspension isn't permanent, Sergeant," Sephiroth answered evenly.

"It could just as well be!"

"Because your reputation is tarnished now?" the young man sharply retorted. "Is that it?"

Bailey's slate eyes narrowed.

"Has-beens don't have reputations."

"Shut up!" 

Without a second's hesitation, Bailey pulled the trigger…

(Fool.)

…and the bullet deflected harmlessly off Masamune's gleaming silver flat.

Sephiroth's emerald eyes flashed, his limited patience with his irate ex-superior lost. He lowered the great katana with an unconscious flourish. "That temper got you suspended, Sergeant, not me. And it's about to get you killed."

Bailey threw his head back in a bitter laugh. "Try it then!"

"As you wish." 

"This is absurd! What in the hell is your problem?" Shinra bellowed, thrusting a thick finger at Bailey. "You slaughter a handful of security guards to barge into a room filled with SOLDIERs just to go after him?" He angrily motioned at Sephiroth. "Armed with nothing but a damn sword and pistol, no less?"

"I thought I told you to can it, Shinra!" The sergeant fired another round for emphasis. The bullet punctured the wall scant inches above the president's head.

"You must have a death wish, Sergeant, because you _will_ hang for that!" Scarlet shrieked.

Sephiroth strode to the fore of the stage, in front of both her and the president, who showed more seething indignation than fear at nearly getting a bullet between the eyes. "He won't live long enough to be hanged," he calmly declared, speaking more to Bailey than to the blonde.

The officer just belted out another weird peal of laughter and raised the pistol again. "See you in hell, White-Hair!" 

He pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.

Scarlet, the president, three Turks, two executives, and most of the SOLDIERs swore. 

Another woman in the back fainted. 

Hojo smiled.

There were three sharp clangs…and Sephiroth was gone.

Maniacal laughter seized Bailey as he re-holstered the pistol and whipped the bloody short sword in a wide arc behind him, narrowly intercepting a rush of silver and shadow.

Sephiroth bounced back from the interception, plunging his katana forward beneath the short sword in the split second it took his feet to touch ground again. The officer bobbed his head to the side a hairsbreadth short of losing it and slammed his blade down in an attempt to pin the Masamune, but the young man clearly saw it coming and with a snap of his wrist turned its cutting edge up and powered the smaller sword away.

"Not so easy, eh, Sephiroth?" Bailey taunted. "I ain't even using a gun yet!"

His acknowledgement came in the form of a series of rushing, silver-swift katas that rocked him back on his heels, earned him a biting gash to the hand, and nearly cost him a finger. Uttering a familiar string of profanities, he angled his blade low to catch the Masamune as Sephiroth withdrew it…and succeeded, pushing the huge katana wide at an angle not easily recovered from. 

As Sephiroth followed the momentum of his deflected blade and lunged closer, Bailey, in a spur of foolish, delighted madness, thought that at last, with such a simple ploy, he had opened his window of vengeance. His adversary was in no position to defend himself, his entire front made a clear target by his dive. 

Meaning to put his last bullet to good use, the officer snapped his pistol out with his free hand, curling a finger taut around the trigger, aiming the barrel square at the young man's heart…and firing.

Back on the stage, Hojo's smile widened.

Sephiroth spun a half-turn and landed hard on his back. 

Bailey chuckled…

…and dropped face-first to the floor.

The katana was impaled clear to the hilt through his chest. With the impact of his fall, the protruding length in the front was driven back through his body with a hollow scrape of metal and the wet, sickening sound of tearing innards. Masamune, slick with fresh, glistening blood, towered proudly, rooted in the flesh of its first victim…its first trophy. The blade's slender shadow fell across the fair face of its supine wielder, as if trying to make him aware of his gruesome feat. 

The room was plunged into a breathless, uneasy hush. No one so much as twitched. Even President Shinra's stern face tightened a little with anticipation. 

After what seemed a suffocating eternity, Sephiroth sluggishly pulled himself first into a sitting position, then, reaching up to clasp the bound handle of the Masamune for leverage, staggered to his feet. Only now could the congregated mass clearly see the growing crimson blossom garishly tainting his bullet-pierced belly. 

Hugging one lean arm tight against his middle, the platinum-haired young man yanked the Masamune free none too delicately, and paying no heed to what he'd yanked it free of, started up the central aisle toward the stage, his steps unsteady but never once faltering. The great katana trailed a vivid ripple of blood behind him as he went. 

Bated gasps of awe and fear wavered throughout the crowd. President Shinra moved from behind the podium, as did Scarlet, and whoever else was sitting back there. Merser stepped down from the stage and jogged the short distance to intercept Sephiroth, wordlessly sidestepping the pair of murdered guards.

"Holy shit!" he hissed, halting the young man with a loose grip to his sword arm. "You're…what the hell…?"

Suppressing a sharp intake of breath as a hot burst of fire ripped every nerve in his body apart, Sephiroth looked sidelong at the lieutenant general, replying in a voice thinning with pain, "The Masamune…is curved, isn't it?"

Merser glanced up at Shinra, his face a mask of confusion. So obvious was the statement that he thought the boy delirious. "Yes…"

"So…why do you think…I fell that…way?" Without waiting for a reply, Sephiroth straightened to his full height and looked up at President Shinra, the quiet, insistent ferocity in his glowing jade eyes belying the numbness that was beginning to sap his strength.

"I'll be damned," Shinra muttered.

(This pain…like what Hojo…put me through….)

His head jerked to meet the scientist's black gaze. The instant their eyes locked, Hojo's smile heightened into a low furl of laughter. 

(Agh…dammit….) 

The whisperings in the crowd escalated to a dull roar. At his side, Merser said something, perhaps a delayed response to the vague question he'd posed. The soft, pleased chuckle rumbling from that bastard scientist's throat was all that Sephiroth heard, however, before he wordlessly slumped to the floor.

---------------------------------------

"Sephiroth used the katana's arc to curve it around the sergeant as he fell. Fairly elementary, really."

Having finally deduced and declared what exactly the young man had done in the instant of basically saving himself from a life-ending gunshot, Merser took both the president's and the scientist's nonverbal cues to leave the lab. He hadn't expected…hell, didn't even _want_ to hang around in it for any length of time anyway, regardless of whether or not he was welcome. 

While the Shinra executives and senior SOLDIERs calmed and vacated the audience, the reedy Head of Science had more or less commanded him to carry the unconscious young man to the laboratory floor, for reasons he thankfully wasn't told. Had he held more seniority than the department head, he would have told him to can it, that the boy needed the infirmary, not this freak den…but since Shinra expectedly didn't object, he wasn't in a position to, either.

Offering the president…and only the president…proper acknowledgement with a perfunctory salute, the lieutenant general took his leave, heading quietly down the stairs with a rueful shake of his head.

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"So this is what you wanted all that extra funding for, hmm?" The president mused, staring placidly down at Sephiroth, who'd been placed on a high stainless steel examination table. 

The young man's heavy black coat had not been loosened or removed, the ebon leather now thoroughly ruined by his own blood. His skin, already the pallor of milk-white marble, had faded to near-translucency, lighter still than the ethereal hoar-frost hue his platinum mane had taken on in the intentionally dim lighting. His gloved hands, one of them caked with dried crimson, were curled into loose fists at his sides.

"Yes." Hojo turned from the nearby supply counter, scrutinizing a large syringe of coldly glowing Mako. "And I do believe you've seen the merit proven now, have you not, President?" He stole a quick look at the preoccupied leader, the verdant sheen of the liquid he held reflecting bizarrely off the black depths of his eyes. 

Shinra grunted a reply and stepped back from the table. "The wound he took…"

"…With the encouragement of some concentrated Mako, will be of no consequence." He arched a thin dark brow. "Concern?"

"Concerned that he won't get to Wutai and show those Shinobi bastards Shinra Inc. is not to be screwed with."

"Of course. Nothing to worry about. I…engineered…him to withstand greater punishment than a simple bullet."

Now it was Shinra's turn to quirk a russet brow. 

Hojo harshly jabbed the needle into the taut flesh near the base of Sephiroth's neck. "It will take far more than a bullet to kill him," he explained, passively watching a slight tremor quiver the length of the young man's frame. "This bout of unconsciousness was just shock-induced, and even had he been left alone, he would have promptly recovered on his own. Under most circumstances, the Jenova cells would sustain him and repair injuries of even the severest extremity within a fraction of the time in which normal humans could recover…if they even could at all."

The scientist paused and made a small sound of annoyance when Sephiroth's head lolled. He hastily forced it straight again so the injection would not be disrupted before he continued. "I was hoping something like this would happen before he was sent to conflict. The trauma's stimulated the Jenova cells…so now he should have no problem against the Wutaians. Proving Shinra's superiority is inevitable." He tugged the needle out and moved back to the counter to discard it, adding under his breath, "And mine."

Hojo could almost hear the president's wolfish grin. "Perfect. Our…general…will be deployed at dawn. And I expect nothing short of perfect victory from this project of yours, Hojo."

"It's a project of _mine_…of course it'll be perfect." Though Shinra was already on his way out, it was not the rotund leader he was addressing. He swung around to face his 'project,' a possessed gleam lighting his hollow orbs. "Hear that…Gast? Mine!"

Sephiroth's fists clenched, the renewed dose of Mako taking hold. Hojo walked back to him, his head tilting sideways as if curiously observing a doped-up lab rat shuddering back from the throes of narcosis. 

"That's right," he cackled. "Rise and shine…General…"

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A/N: …Damn, that got rushed at the end. 

Oops. Sorry, this one was a couple days later than I meant it to be. I even had it pretty much ready, too. I just somehow got inspired to write some AeriSeph mush while listening to some sappy tracks on the _Escaflowne_ movie soundtrack, so I got (quite) a bit sidetracked with that. Really, I have no idea what came over me. ^^;

As always, thank you for the great reviews! Cookies for all! ^_^


	14. Departure

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy 7 belongs to Square. What…you didn't think Square just up and sold me the rights to it, do you? *hysterical laughter* Yeah right! The three bucks in my pocket, a bunch of college texts I don't read, and my bizarre little CD collection wouldn't buy one of Square's _garbage cans_.

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Hmm…you're not going to let that stop you, are you?

Of course not. You're mine.

Hurry up!

Sephiroth's emerald eyes fluttered open, slowly, until they found and focused on a pair of hollow black orbs leering above him…at which point it dawned on him where he was, and then they shot wide. Before he even realized what he was doing, he bolted upright with an angry start, a movement swiftly and adversely rewarded with a brutal stab of cold fire in his middle.

Stifling a low groan, he gingerly settled back down, his eyes briefly drifting shut as he brought a hand to his now-throbbing head…only to quickly open them when he felt how stiff the supple leather of his glove had become -- stiff with his own dried blood.

(…Bailey. That's right…)

"Good morning…or should I say good evening?" Hojo chuckled. "And how is the new general feeling, hmm?" He turned to retrieve something from the counter behind him.

Sephiroth levered into a sitting position again, this time a good deal more carefully. He glared at the ruined glove a moment longer before uttering a soft snort of contempt. "Fine," he spat in reply, undoing the sturdy silver bands that held both the bloodied article and its intact mate in place. "Just fine."

"You're a poor liar, Sephiroth," Hojo retorted, his back still to the young man.

"And you're a poor father, Hojo," Sephiroth snapped.

"Well! That was…random. What brought this on?" he laughed aloud.

Sephiroth shifted and repositioned himself so that his long legs dangled over the edge of the table. He scowled when he noticed the crimson that had seeped into the glossy black of his coat; he'd bought the garment himself not two days ago with a sizable portion of the accumulation of meager monthly wages over a year's time, and all it'd taken was a gunshot's instant to ruin it.

(Damn it. It's almost a shame Bailey's rotting in hell right now. He owes me a new coat.)

"It's no mystery, Hojo," he finally replied. "And seeing as how you decided to point out a supposed shortcoming of mine, far be it from me not to return the favor with a known shortcoming of yours."

At that the scientist turned. He was holding a small syringe, this one not filled with Mako but with a thin, watery liquid instead. He shook his head, a slight grin playing on his thin lips, not appearing the least bit upset that he'd just been cut down. "A bit bitter, are we?" 

Sephiroth tugged his gloves off and tossed them beside him on the steel table. "Call it what you like," he said, his voice low and cool. Absently flexing his slender fingers, he nodded at the syringe. "What's that?"

Hojo didn't press the previous matter; it was -- and always had been -- quite clear that Sephiroth's hatred toward him didn't elicit all that much concern. Any filial affection Sephiroth might have had for him as a small child had long ago vanished, with good reason, and on his behalf there'd never been much, if any, affection to lose.

"It's an agent to expedite the internal healing process," he answered, almost mechanically. He stepped back to the table. "So unless you want to take off that atrocious coat and armor of yours so I can give this to you the conventional way…give me your hand."

Sephiroth only stared hard at Hojo, his verdant gaze boring deep into the scientist's inky orbs. He had no intentions of obliging him with either option. Nor did he buy Hojo's explanation. He never left anything that simple -- and beneficial -- where his treatment was concerned, and there was no reason to believe he'd all of a sudden started to now.

Unflinching, and with a note of sarcasm, he said, "And _I'm_ the poor liar?"

"Nonsense." Hojo grabbed for a hand, seeing as how he clearly wasn't going to get willing compliance.

Ignoring the renewed tug of pain that flared with the motion, Sephiroth vehemently swatted the scientist away with the hand that wasn't being sought and jerked the one that was out of reach. "Yes, it is," he growled, forcing his temper to stay in check so he wouldn't unconsciously display any more rage-wrought pain. "Now tell me what that really is!"

Initially taken aback by Sephiroth's reaction, Hojo glanced down at his stinging hand for a second before raising his eyes to meet his son's, a cold indignation simmering in the obsidian depths. "It never concerned you before, Sephiroth," he hissed. "Don't argue."

"I'm not arguing; I'm demanding." 

"Since when do you command me, Sephiroth? I don't care if you're the general of the damned military; I'm not one of those worthless rifle-toting grunts answering to every officer's beck and call…so _you _will not tell _me_ what to do!"

"Likewise." 

"Don't be smart with me." A malicious smirk overtook his incensed glower at the spark of a sudden afterthought. "Son."

Sephiroth's lucent Mako eyes burned so hotly they seemed to absorb the lab's soft, false fluorescence. "If you ever call me that to my face again…"

"…You'll lop off my head? Skewer me with that nasty katana? Really, Sephiroth," he snorted, his grin undiminished. "Get over it. You already tried something like that and it didn't work. Need I keep reminding you?"

A vile knot of rage and disgust clenched in his belly, wrenching yet another knife of fire through the site of his wound. The ferocity in his illumined orbs faded a bit, yet he kept his jaw tight and refused to reveal any discomfort. 

He and Hojo wordlessly glared at each other for a long, breathless moment.

There was a freakish, unnerving mix of anger, happiness, and…triumph…swirling behind the scientist's pallid façade. Insanity…?

(He'd be perfect company for Bailey.)

Their gazes yet locked…Sephiroth silently extended a hand.

Hojo's smile turned down a shade, but didn't altogether vanish, as he took an unnecessarily firm grip on the young man's wrist. "Good to see you decided to comply," he remarked, driving the needle with intentional clumsiness into the back of his hand.

Tensing at the initial pinch but relaxing in a snap before it made his stomach pain any worse, Sephiroth softly replied, "Just shut up and get it over with. I need to get a new coat and gloves before I leave for Wutai." His brow furrowed as he felt the liquid, warm and prickling as blood returning to a numb limb -- so different from the chilling fire of Mako -- seep through his veins.

"Already taken care of."

"…"

"The President took it upon himself to see to it that you had your preferred attire when you left…at sunrise. I believe you'll find the necessary replacements at your apartment."

"I don't need to go back there. I'll practice."

"You'll rest."

"You care?"

"You do. I know you're not going there to glorify Shinra." Hojo roughly withdrew the needle. "You've got ten hours until dawn, and I know you well enough to know that you'd be bored out of your mind long before then should you choose to practice the entire time."

(If I knew I'd sleep…I'd love to.)

"And I know you don't want to go to Wutai in a regular uniform."

Sephiroth's eyes narrowed to shards of acid ice. He couldn't stand it when Hojo was right, even if it was over something so trivial.

"…You never did give me a straight answer, though," Hojo said, nudging his slipping glasses back into place, his expression now sober. "How are you feeling?" 

He had to know how well the fresh Mako had spurred the Jenova cells' regenerative capabilities. Right now, of all times, he half-heartedly wished Sephiroth would make an effort to repress his inherited tenacity. The fact that it was a trait so over-inflated by the Mako and the Jenova cells…was a good thing, he mentally reminded himself after a second's deliberation. It served the purpose for which Sephiroth existed anyway; at least he wasn't willing to admit to weakness.

"That was as straight of an answer as you'll get, because I know you couldn't possibly give a damn," Sephiroth countered calmly. "I'm alive…so I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar, yet you seem to excel at playing a hero."

(Enough of this.)

Giving his eyes an incredulous roll, Sephiroth slid forward the scant few inches his feet were off the floor and stood as soon as the soles of his boots hit the solid surface. "Where's the Masamune?" he demanded, snatching up his discarded gloves.

"Right there," Hojo answered curtly, motioning to the katana. "Leaving already?"

"Ten minutes later than I should have," he grumbled, retrieving the slender sheathed blade from where it was propped against a steel storage cabinet in the corner.

"I thought you wanted to know what that substance was." Though Sephiroth had already started for the elevator, he could _hear_ the skewed smirk the little man was flashing at his back.

"Whatever it was, I'm sure I didn't need it." He recognized the taint of Mako in his body like a false blood, and knew good and well it had been responsible for -- and taken care of most of -- the repair his body had required. The pain still remained of course, and would do so for a good while. He had been _shot_ after all.

"What do you plan to do until you leave?"

"Whatever I please," Sephiroth called over his shoulder, his destination nearly reached. "Practice, rest…I'd sit and stare at a wall for ten hours so long as you weren't around."

He stopped in front of the elevator and punched in the residence floor number. After he retrieved his new coat and gloves…he would decide what to do.

After Sephiroth had boarded the elevator and was long out of sight, Hojo laughed softly to himself as he glanced down at the syringe, shifting it slightly in his hand to reveal its label. Though it was written in his hasty, barely legible scrawl, one word clearly stood out -- 'JENOVA.'

"On the contrary, Sephiroth. The more you get of this…the better you perform as the specimen SOLDIER, and the better I look as the superior scientist. Hmm…you need every drop of this I give you…"

-----------------------------------------

Ten hours -- twelve with the short, inherently awkward jaunt to Junon in which several of the squad of fifty troopers sent with him seriously began to question their sanity at seeing the General look so…healthy a mere day after being shot -- Sephiroth was on his way to Wutai aboard the massive, ugly hulk of a plane he heard the pilot call 'Gelnika.'

The troopers all migrated to the munitions-populated cargo bay to while the time away with idle conversation, sleep, or daydreaming, activities which the lone SOLDIER officer aside from Sephiroth didn't mind in the least. That officer disappeared into the cockpit shortly after take-off.

Which left Sephiroth alone, as he preferred, for the time being. Rather than associate with the troopers or join his fellow officer, he found a vantage point in the far corner of the catwalk that overlooked the cargo bay, a place where, thanks to a burnt-out fluorescent ceiling light, he could be in shadow and go unnoticed from all but the most curiosity-driven eyes. 

For, truth be told, despite appearing the relative picture of health -- he couldn't have felt worse.

After leaving the lab, he'd returned to his apartment, where he did indeed find a fresh, identical coat and pair of gloves just as Hojo had said, along with a computer-fabricated letter from the President which ended up untouched in the garbage. If there'd been anything the windbag hadn't told him -- or about him --already…well, he knew it wouldn't be in that mass-copy tripe anyway.

Then, after cleaning up and changing, while he had indeed felt that a good rest was in order…he'd promptly gone to the training court, which he had all to himself the entire time. Maybe he'd just been trying to prove a point, or passively rebel against Hojo…or perhaps it was just an aftereffect of the chemical he'd been given combined with the Mako…adrenaline, or pride, even…but he just hadn't found it in him to sleep.

Now, though…now he wished he would have taken the chance, because he knew he wouldn't get to for awhile. He had caved somewhat with the practice, and kept the routines relatively easier, but it was quite obvious that even the lessened movements had taken their toll. His entire abdomen burned still, and the mostly healed tissue that had been ripped or damaged by the wound pulled muscle and ground nerves rather evilly if he moved too quickly. 

And topping it off was a voracious migraine that protested every subtle noise -- from the sonorous whirring of the propellers to the bass droning of the distant engine -- and threatened to drive him over the edge.

Sephiroth uttered a gusty sigh and carefully seated himself on the steel grating, his back to the gently vibrating wall and the Masamune in front of him. Praying -- again to whatever deity chose to hear him -- that the SOLDIER officer had gotten wrapped up in a flight-encompassing conversation with the pilot, and that none of the troopers got snoopy, he slowly drew his legs up before him, loosely crossed his arms over his knees, and buried his head in the crook they made.

(I wasn't expecting any fanfare or fawning when I left, but I _was_ expecting something a little better than this.)

He snarled into the black leather of his sleeves. (Damn you to all the hells, Hojo…I _hate_ it when you're right.)

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A/N: …Dang. You know, I had something fairly important to say here…and now it's just gone. O.o; *thinks REALLY hard* Oh, here it is. This chapter was written in the midst of school finals, so I apologize if the quality's lacking. I think my muses got scared away. ^_^;

Anyway…

SolarCloud: Did your muse enjoy the little treat? :)

Lucrecia LeVrai: Thank you so _very_ much! *hugs* ^____^ Whatever time you spent writing that review was more than worth every second. I'm humbled that you think enough of this fic to always leave such wonderful comments. And yes, I would certainly have the patience to write a story about Sephiroth's entire life. Time would be the only issue. Glad to know you'd be interested in that!

Bachy A: Thanks again for the email! I wasn't expecting that, so it came as quite a pleasant surprise!

Ardwynna Morrigu: Thank _you_ for the email, too! Yes, I did indeed mention some AeriSeph mush. Unfortunately, that may be a little while in coming yet since I've never written romance before, and my mushy moods are sadly infrequent. :( But I will have an A/S posted if it kills me.

Dee-whY-Cee-aRe: I appreciate the assurance that the action scene I wrote did not suck. Many thanks! 

Miras-Dragonfly: Likewise, even though it was for a different scene. I hope this helps you get over your slump! 

A BIG thank-you also to Noacat, DracOnyx, One Winged Angel, and Kya Lorne. I really appreciate all the support!!

…Now, I hope I didn't forget anybody… 


	15. So It Begins

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy 7 and everything related to it belongs to Square. The original characters, as always, are mine…and believe me, they're not making me any money, either. :p

A/N: Ta-da! Finally, here's chapter 15! I humbly apologize for this one taking so long, but for awhile there I just didn't have the urge to write, not to mention a few extra family gatherings to attend…but now I'm back, and for those who've been patiently (or not so patiently -- lol) waiting for this update, I hope it doesn't disappoint.

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What are you doing?

"Sir."

You shouldn't be doing this now!

"Sir!"

Enough!

"General Sephiroth, Sir!"

Viridescent eyes, concealed in a fold of musky black, snapped open. Sephiroth remained motionless, trying to decide what exactly was going on. The insistent voice -- above him, it sounded like -- pressed no further. Neither did that irate voice in his head.

Then he heard it. No whirring, no droning, no soft, idle banter…silence. He remembered noise…

He raised his head, angrily swiping away the platinum locks that obscured his view. He found himself staring at…boots, which shifted a bit as his gaze wandered up to see their wearer's face.

A brown-eyed blonde, appearing scarcely older than Sephiroth and bearing a Corporal's insignia, stood patiently before him, looking straight ahead at the steel-paneled wall.

The officer he'd boarded with.

Silence.

"Welcome to Wutai, Sir."

(I…slept…the whole trip!)

His stomach pulling some as he snatched the Masamune and rose, Sephiroth regarded the Corporal with unintended heat smoldering within his emerald depths. "We've only just arrived, then?"

"About ten minutes ago, yes, Sir," the Corporal explained in near-monotone. "I apologize for not retrieving you sooner, Sir, but you weren't very noticeable up here."

(Good.)

"Nothing intentional, Sir. I apologize."

(Save it. I shouldn't have dozed off up here anyway.) "Never mind," he said, with a brusque, dismissive wave of his hand.

"Thank you, Sir," the blonde replied, daring to meet the General's gaze as he pivoted on his heel to leave. In the split second their eyes caught, he couldn't help but feel as if his silver-haired superior had bored straight through to his soul. The bottomless intensity in those verdant orbs put even the purest Mako to shame.

"I'll…take you to the commander's tent, then…Sir," he said, nervously clearing his throat.

"Yes, do." Sephiroth motioned for the Corporal to go on ahead, but the blonde, now clearly unnerved, hesitated, glancing warily over his shoulder at the great sword in the General's black-gloved hand before he started down the catwalk.

Sephiroth caught the other officer's restive peek, and a subtly amused half-smile found its way to his lips as he, too, began walking. "Don't worry…I only use this on those who cross me…" He trailed off, absently gliding his thumb along the cool edge of the katana's hilt as he recalled its recent…prize. "…Or those who deserve it," he added, more to himself than the corporal.

(All who deserve it.)

------------------------------

The commander's tent -- functional, unadorned, and brown as its barren, cliff-dominated locale

-- was nestled at the hub of an impressive array of equally drab canvas huts. SOLDIERs and troopers, some readily bearing arms, either milled or lounged about, or stood guard on the perimeter and at entrances to the more vital tents. It was obviously one of the smaller outposts; one of substantial size would have had every last man occupied.

Those Sephiroth passed promptly snapped a salute. He guessed most of them inferred his superiority from his unorthodox attire. The current commanding officers had been informed of his departure; that he'd already been told, despite it being obvious protocol, but it was safe to assume he wouldn't be formally announced until after he'd met with the commanders.

No matter how they knew to salute, it was just satisfying to know he wouldn't be ignored or blatantly disrespected without consequence anymore.

The Corporal led him to the central tent's entrance, where both of them were greeted by a pair of rigidly saluting riflemen. The blonde, in turn, saluted the General before returning to the Gelnika to inform the pilot that he could return to Junon now that everyone was where they were supposed to be. One of the guards swept aside the canvas door with a perfunctory, "Sir."

The inside was far from accommodating; not that it was supposed to be, but it was clear they hadn't planned on being here as long as they had been. A dozen firearms ranging in size from pistol to rifle were propped against or set atop one of the small cluster of barrels near the entrance. Not twenty feet in, the tent had been crudely divided by a worn canvas partition, beyond which must have been the ersatz sleeping quarters.

And in the center of this part stood a huge old ammunition crate strewn with maps, tactical summaries, and battle logs. Around it, occupying three wooden stools -- the only real 'furniture' present -- sat the reigning officers, heatedly bickering over one particularly garbled-looking summary. The only one who noticed the General enter was the one facing the outside, but as soon as he dropped his argument and rose at attention, the others weren't far behind.

"Sir!" he declared, more robustly than necessary. This one, the youngest of the trio but the highest-ranked, was so disarmingly sweet-faced he looked like he'd be more at home on a movie screen wooing young girls than on a killing field shooting down Shinobi. He appeared rather startled that the General, the final authority in whatever martial matter he so chose…was younger than he was.

"You are…the General, Sir?" the next oldest, a clean-cut brunette as tall as Sephiroth and twice as broad, queried, his own disbelief better hidden than his younger comrade's. "Pardon me for saying so…Sir…but we weren't informed that you were so…"

"…Fresh outta your mother."

The cherub choked and lost all color.

The brunette balked and turned an unhealthy shade of red, hissing a mild profanity under his breath.

The General did nothing, nor did he change hue. His emerald eyes went cold as he slowly shifted his gaze to meet the lightless depths of the eldest, hatchet-faced officer, whose stern features only pinched further under the young man's scrutiny.

"Do you have a problem with my age…" he paused to note the man's insignia, "…Second Lieutenant?" Sephiroth's tone was cool and eerily level.

"There's not much he doesn't have a problem with," the brunette muttered.

"No…I have a problem with everything about you," the Second Lieutenant answered sharply.

Now the middling officer rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Holy shit…this is going well," he grumbled.

"Burkell, please…" the younger officer interjected, "Talking like that to a superior officer is bad enough, but he doesn't even know our names yet."

"Quit being an ass long enough for the formalities, eh?" The brunette shot an annoyed glare at the older man, who still held rapt Sephiroth's attention. "I'm SOLDIER First Lieutenant Will Reyburn," he said, taking it upon himself to initiate the introductions.

Shaking his head with disapproval, the baby-faced officer declared himself as well. "SOLDIER Major Rian Cressmore, Sir."

Staring hard at Sephiroth a moment more, the dark-eyed officer added absently, "SOLDIER Second Lieutenant Joseph Burkell." A smirk wedged onto his rugged features. "Sir," he finished with sarcastic deliberation.

(Another Bailey.) Had Sephiroth been of a different disposition, he would have burst into laughter at the absurd similarity of Burkell's caustic attitude to the deceased Sergeant's.

I wonder…

(…how he'll die.)

(…What…?)

Sephiroth's silver brows furrowed. It wasn't the thought itself that puzzled him; heavens knew he'd contemplated others' death before. What caught him off guard was the fact that the thought didn't even seem like it was his this time.

(That voice!)

"I hope he's thinking of how he's gonna kick your ass, Burkell, because speaking like that shouldn't earn you anything less."

Realizing he hadn't said anything for awhile, and that he'd been regarding Burkell with concentration heavy on his features, Sephiroth tore his eyes from the Second Lieutenant and looked to Reyburn.

"I don't mean to make your decision for you, General, but he's got no right talking like that." Reyburn folded his arms across his sturdy chest.

"So I can't say I don't like the kid?" Burkell spat back, looking the brunette's way.

"Not like that…" Cressmore sighed, flushing with embarrassment at the Second Lieutenant's audacity.

"You're addressing a superior, Burkell," Reyburn sternly reminded him.

Glancing at Sephiroth out of the corner of his eye, Burkell snidely asked the brunette, "What…Sir…do you think the General will gut me like he did Sergeant Bailey?"

"Sweet Shiva, Burkell, enough!" the Major barked.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sephiroth replied calmly, much to everyone's surprise. "Bailey gave me a reason to kill him. You…are just a loud-mouthed fool."

Intentionally brushing past the livid dark-eyed officer as he at last walked further into the tent, Sephiroth paused at the partition, turning to face the trio. "There are cots back here?" he confirmed, asking whoever would answer.

"Yes, but…" Cressmore stole a glance at Reyburn, who gave him an imperceptible shrug. "We need to inform you of the current situations, General. As soon as possible would be…"

"…Not now," Sephiroth finished. Offering no further explanation, he pulled aside the flap that had been cut into the canvas, but before going through it, looked squarely back at Burkell. The officer was so furious he couldn't maintain eye contact, and latched his black glower to one of the tent's support poles.

(Like a sulking child…)

"The war won't be won while I rest, Major. It can wait an hour or two." Not once as he spoke did he look to the one he was addressing, and not once did the one he was looking at return his gaze. 

"Should we wake you in a couple of hours, then, General?"

You're not sleeping anymore right now. No.

"No." Leaving no more room for objections or…curt remarks, he stepped through the open flap, letting it sweep shut behind him, lightly brushing the trailing leather of his coat.

His assumption about this section's purpose had been quite correct -- that is, if six bony-looking cots could truly constitute sleep-worthiness. No matter, though. He'd dozed plenty on the plane.

Sliding the Masamune under one of the nearer cots, Sephiroth then lowered himself onto the scratchy canvas -- carefully, for the wretched thing didn't look all that hardy -- and curled his arms behind his head, ignoring the mild discomfort of the wooden framework poking his elbows. Without intentions to sleep -- especially not on this contraption, although sooner or later he knew he'd have to -- he closed his eyes, absently wondering how in the world Reyburn managed to fit in one of these things.

You're not planning on sleeping again, are you? I told you not to!

Agitated, Sephiroth shifted on the cot. Whoever had been speaking to him as of late had greatly worn out their short, unwanted welcome. 

Well?

He heard laughter not far away rise to a drunken crescendo. Some nonsensical chatter…swearing…musings about when the next Shinobi attack would be. The staccato popping of someone's distant target practice…

Don't ignore me!

(So go away.)

What?

(Whoever you are, whatever you want…shut up, and go away.)

…!

To ward off any further intrusions and to keep his mind occupied for the two hours he'd arbitrarily granted himself, Sephiroth conjured up a string of thoughts about the first thing, as undesirable as it was, that came to mind -- Hojo. 

His uninvited mental guest spoke no more.

------------------------------

"Burkell, that was totally uncalled-for! Bringing up the late Sergeant like that…we only just found out about it, and already you've taunted the general with it!"

"Taunted him, Major? That's a load of bull! You make it sound like he feels guilty about it!"

Cressmore's china blue eyes sharpened and shadowed, undecided whether to be angry or appalled. He opened his mouth to say something, but Reyburn beat him to it.

"Whether he does or not isn't our business! When the Lieutenant General called here, he made it damn clear that he killed him out of self-defense!" He spoke without restraint, as did the other two; they weren't overly concerned if the General heard them. "I don't know about the General, but I know I wouldn't have a knotted conscience over that!"

"I'm sure he wouldn't."

"You know, Burkell, as much as I would have disagreed with it, he could have killed you as well for being so disrespectful. It's barbaric, but he could have," Cressmore said. "You're just fortunate he doesn't see your offense in as harsh a light as he did Sergeant Bailey's."

With a throaty growl of defeat, Burkell started to leave, regarding his two superiors with a roll of his dark eyes. "Forget it," he muttered, just soft enough for them not to hear him. "Morons."

"Where are you going, Second Lieutenant?" Reyburn demanded, oblivious to what he'd just been called. "We were in the middle of discussing…"

"…Shit that can wait until the _leader_'s ready. I need a smoke." With that, he stomped outside.

"I take it that's what Sergeant Bailey acted like?" Reyburn queried with a side glance at the Major.

"I guess."

Smiling sardonically, he settled back down next to the crate. "I can see why the General killed him then."

------------------------------

"Fortunate indeed," Burkell gruffly mumbled, ripping a lighter and a half-spend pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He cursed a blue streak as he fumbled with the stubborn lighter, taking such a deep, savoring draw off the cigarette when he at last got it lit that one would have thought it his last act alive.

"That kid's about as forgiving and rational as a pissed-off Bahamut." The Second Lieutenant strolled leisurely around the commander's tent, the nicotine gradually slowing his racing blood. "If those two jackasses would just open their eyes, they'd see that he's just damn good at hiding it."

He took a second magnificent drag from his cigarette…and dropped the spent weed, grinding the ashes into the dirt with his heel. "Should be twice as long," he mused.

Burkell looked up, seriously considering lighting up another smoke, only to see that he'd stopped not a foot from the tent's back entrance. A corner of it had been pinned back so the inside wouldn't get too stifling, and through it, distinct against the drabness, caught a glimpse of brilliant silver -- the General's hair. He stared hard at what he could see of the one who'd killed the man he'd liked to call a friend…and his nicotine-bated blood seethed again.

They'd been personally called by the Lieutenant General less than an hour before their General arrived, and told what had happened. The call interrupted a strategy meeting that was going nowhere, and both Cressmore and Reyburn were affectedly concerned, but minutes later they'd all returned to their heady discussion. Only he himself had been noticeably upset at the news, and had struck up a furious argument about something as trivial as -- he thought -- the ratio of swordsmen to marksmen in the perimeter guard.

And he'd decided right then that he was not leaving Wutai. He would not be led by a…child…lacking field experience; near as he could tell, all Sephiroth had was a masterfully concealed temper, an absurd katana, and way too much Mako in his blood -- none of which he felt justified ranking him General. The last weak thread of respect he'd had for Shinra -- the President and the Company -- had snapped.

Drawing his mouth into a thin, tight-lipped smile, Burkell casually knelt in the dust, unconcerned if he garnered any passing attention…and drew something from his boot.

-----------------------------

/You're a poor liar, Sephiroth./

/…so _you _will not tell _me_ what to do!/

/Don't be smart with me…son./

/…You'll lop off my head? Skewer me…? Get over it…it didn't work./

/…Seem to excel at playing a hero./

(A hero…)

A keen banshee's shriek mercilessly stabbed his mind, sundering his bitter reverie. Startled, feeling as if every last one of his nerves had exploded, Sephiroth snapped his emerald eyes open…

…To see a cold glint of metal plunging toward his throat.

He jerked his head out of the way at the last second, and the blade intended for his jugular instead slipped through his platinum mane and tore into the rough fabric of the cot beneath him.

Rolling off the side, Sephiroth snatched up the Masamune, straightened, and wheeled to meet his assailant all in one swift motion. His eyes, narrowed angrily at the dangerous intrusion, widened a shade with unsuppressed shock when he found himself not facing an errant Shinobi, but one of his own.

Scowling with disgust, Burkell yanked free the stiletto he'd meant to bury in the young General's throat. "Stupid shit," he growled, flipping the slender knife over in his hand. "Should've stayed still. It would have made this a hell of a lot easier!"

He lunged across the cot knife-first, landing easily in a crouch but nowhere near his intended target.

Sephiroth had deftly backed out of the blade's limited range and now stood near the wall of the tent, his sword ready but not raised. "I thought as much," he hissed. "But apparently you lack even more intelligence than I thought. You couldn't even wait until nightfall to try and murder me properly."

"Aw, hell," he chuckled bitterly. "Why bother? I'm not going back to Midgar anyway." Burkell slowly rose.

Not even caring to question why he reasoned that, Sephiroth changed the subject to the motive of this flagrant attempt on his life. "So…I take it this is about the Sergeant?"

The Second Lieutenant restlessly flexed his fingers around the stiletto's handle. "I grew up with the bastard, joined the military with him…he never amounted to much 'cause he had such a damn temper. Kept him outta here 'cause he was too volatile for anything but training recruits."

Sephiroth's jade eyes narrowed fully again; the workings of a snarl tugged at his lips.

"Looks like that didn't turn out so well for him, either," Burkell sneered.

"I hope you're not waiting for an excuse or apology on my part," Sephiroth replied, " because I've no need to justify what I did to that gutter-mouthed has-been to anyone…let alone an inferior officer."

The harshly emphasized reminder of his place made Burkell's face go ashen. "Don't pull that rank shit with me." The stiletto trembled faintly in his white-knuckled grasp. "Cocky snots like you belong on the front lines, where the cannon fodder should be."

Without warning, he lunged again at the young General, who was, again, long gone. And as he came up in a crude attacking stance, he was knocked hard to his back by the flat of a blade he couldn't even see.

In a split second, the blade was visible again, its death-cold tip at his throat.

"Now I decide who the cannon fodder is."

"General!" Major Cressmore swept aside the dividing flap, the primarily one-sided scuffle having reached his attention. Reyburn was at his heels, cocking a pistol he had grabbed from the barrels.

When Cressmore spotted Burkell prone on the ground, the General's katana poised a hairsbreadth from his windpipe, the first thought that popped in his mind butchered any confidence he thought he had in his new leader's sanity and demeanor. Then he noticed the stiletto still in his fellow officer's grip. "Burkell!" he exclaimed, his cherubic face flushing with shock. "What the…?"

"What is the meaning of this?" Reyburn demanded, pointedly indicating Burkell. "General, Sir, what is going on?" He abandoned readying the handgun as he sought his superior's explanation, but his gaze never wavered from the Second Lieutenant's enraged glower -- which, in turn, captured the General's stoic façade.

"Nothing..."

"Sir!"

"…but another loud, jealous dog trying to kill what he cannot." Sephiroth held the Masamune steady a breathless moment longer before stepping back with a soft snort of disgust. "And I won't have another dog's blood on my sword."

"You are some son-of-a-bitch," Burkell spat, propping himself up on his elbows, his dark orbs glistening like fresh oil about to be set aflame. "Don't think you got the goddamn right to call people animals just because you killed someone with that overgrown butcher knife and impressed that red-suited, chain-smoking slob enough to get sent here! All that shit must've gone to his head…putting some freak-of-nature kid who's probably not old enough to drink in charge of his frickin' army! I mean…what the hell? Does he think you're just gonna up and win him the whole damn war?"

Waiting patiently throughout the gratingly familiar blustering, Sephiroth's practiced indifference didn't so much as flicker at the officer's insults. They weren't exactly new…

Finally, when Burkell paused to draw a breath for a fresh tirade, he quietly asserted, "He does…because I will."

Still clutching the stiletto, the incensed Second Lieutenant clambered to his feet, moving what distance he could away from the General. "My ass," he growled. "You're just gonna prance in here thinking you can single-handedly do what an army of SOLDIERs and grunts haven't been able to accomplish in _years_?"

Shades of disbelief crossed both Cressmore's and Reyburn's face.

"Yes," Sephiroth replied, unfazed, "but you will help me do so." At the looks of incredulity he got, he elaborated, "On our next advance, you will be the first to go. If I'm satisfied with you performance, I may overlook this attempt on my life and let you keep both your rank and your life. If you disappoint me and merely come back alive, then your life is all you will keep. And if you fail entirely, then obviously neither concerns you anymore."

"I told you I wasn't going back."

"Then die…if that's what you'd planned on doing. But you're still going out on the front line."

Burkell started to swear at him, but as soon as he recognized what expletive the officer was about to hurl at him, decided he didn't care to hear it and interrupted him, adding, "I would suggest a better weapon, though."

Whatever he'd been poised to say fizzled. His face contorted somewhere between defiance and fury. Giving on finding a voice too strangled with negativity, Burkell at last expressed what he'd meant to say with a rather blunt gesture -- one not intended for Sephiroth alone.

He flipped them all off.

And no sooner did he lower his hand than the entire camp seemed to burst with harried movement and the angry cacophony of shouting, clanging metal, and snapping, growling guns.

"What the hell?" Reyburn started for the front of the tent and was cut off just beyond the partition by one of the guarding riflemen, who now bore a fresh, oozing gash along his cheekbone.

"Sir," he said, excitedly fingering the trigger of his firearm, "it's a swarm of Shinobi! They came out of nowhere!"

"Of course they did, you fool! They always have!" Tossing aside his pistol and snagging a rifle of his own, the First Lieutenant hollered for his two superiors -- excluding Burkell either on purpose or due to battle-fired forgetfulness -- before sprinting outside. The rifleman was right behind him.

Cressmore cast a final disapproving glare at Burkell before running to grab a weapon and join the fray, shaking his head as he disappeared after Reyburn.

Sephiroth didn't even look back as he went after the other two officers; he didn't even bother ordering Burkell to come with, or even to take up better arms. The obstinate Second Lieutenant wouldn't comply without an argument or some nasty refute, and when the situation was as it was, there wasn't time to bicker with someone of his mien. At the same time, he couldn't shake this nagging assumption at the back of his mind that by the time this was all over, Burkell wouldn't be here anymore.

And that it somehow wouldn't surprise him.

------------------------------

Sephiroth emerged in time to intercept a trio of lightly-armored Shinobi, one of them female and all of them readily brandishing simple ninja blades, making a beeline for the commander's tent. Their speed didn't diminish when they saw someone now blocking their way, nor did they abandon their destination. The woman shouted in Wutaian at her two comrades, then took a great vertical leap, drawing from nowhere a handful of glinting metal, which she promptly flung at the one in their way. The other two, still earthbound, did the same.

(Shuriken. How…amusing.)

Unflinching, Sephiroth stepped forward, raising the Masamune in front of him…waited…and at the final instant, deftly spun the katana in a wheel of quicksilver. The failed hail of whirring silver clattered harmlessly to the ground, and before they'd even all fallen, the platinum-haired General was rushing to meet the Shinobi pair that was closing in on him. In a show of dexterity rivaling even his cunning adversaries', he twisted his wrist enough to lead the katana's momentum horizontally, dashed clear past the nearest Shinobi, whirled -- the blade still leading, switched to a two-handed grip, and thrust the Masamune straight up.

The female ninja, her attack foiled and countered too rapidly for her to even touch ground again, now plummeted face-first to that soil she'd been so close to landing on, her belly pierced and split. The other two, their jugulars severed -- but still in possession of their heads -- were dead before they fell.

His jade eyes glowing hot with excited Mako, Sephiroth lowered the Masamune, looking the glistening silver over. A pleased smirk found its way onto his lips when he saw there was scarcely more than a crimson spatter at its tip; unlike the fight with Bailey, the sword had been moving too quickly to become drenched in its victims' blood. 

"General!" Cressmore, reloading his spent firearm as he tore between a pair of sickly grayish tents, stopped short of his superior, hastily surveying the three slain Shinobi surrounding him with unabashed amazement. "I know…I know Reyburn called for you to join us, Sir, but it's really not necessary to…" He was interrupted by the uncomfortably close report of a rifle, and after snapping a look left and right, muttered something under his breath about being sitting ducks.

"I didn't come here just to sit idle and watch others fight," Sephiroth replied, looking up and focusing on something well beyond the Major. "Now…tell me…where is the bulk of the raiding party?"

Cressmore thought for a second, noticeably tensing when another nearby rifle barked. "Near the northeast corner, Sir," he said. "Near the bluff. That's where we think they came from, but the stupid guards didn't even…" 

The General started walking in the direction he'd indicated, so the Major fell silent, until it dawned on him that he must have meant to weed out what was left of the invading Shinobi himself. "Sir!" he called, jogging to catch up with him. "Sir! You don't mean to take them out…alone, do you?"

"I'm sure the SOLDIERs have taken out most of them already," he called over his shoulder. "Those they haven't…I will. Gather whoever you can and assemble at the center of the camp. I won't need back-up," he added, as if reading Cressmore's next objection. 

Stupefied, the Major watched as the General strode almost casually through the mess of tents, not even seeming to mind the screams, shouts, gunfire, and clashing metal erupting around him. He glanced back down at the three bodies, marveling at how cleanly they were killed…and supposing that with skill like that, he probably didn't mind.

------------------------------

SOLDIERs, troopers, officers, and Shinobi alike skirmished amidst the canvas dwellings; bullets and shuriken flying, knives and swords dueling. There seemed to be plenty of the ninja already among the dead, and from what could be seen, a scant few Shinra personnel joined them. Several tents had already collapsed, and many more were riddled with bullet-holes and blade tears, some rendered nearly unusable. 

The Masamune glinted menacingly, even in the cloud-tempered late afternoon sun, as Sephiroth made his way toward the rust-tinged cliff that towered in the northeast. Twice on his trek he was assailed by -- and immediately victorious over -- lone Shinobi, and now that he was nearing where the Major had said they'd first broke through the perimeter guard, he found more living foes than dead, and knew that soon the great katana in his gloved hand would have its fill. He walked straight into a small clearing at the base of the precipice…and found himself against no less than a dozen Shinobi -- the remainder that hadn't quite made it into the camp yet.

He halted. So did they. Several of them began taunting him in their native tongue, and while Sephiroth had learned only a scant few Wutaian words in basic training, he felt confident they were mocking his odds. It would be foolish for all twelve of them to assault him at once…but somewhere in the furthest depths of his mind, some persistent thought that again seemed not to belong to him actually wished they would.

And so they did.

(Act the fools I know you are…)

Sephiroth leveled the Masamune, donning a cold smile as he steeled himself, and silently beckoned the lot of them.

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A/N: And that's where I'll end the chapter. Yep. Sorry. Oh, and this went through more edits than I care to admit; I think I got everything, but if you spotted anything out of place, _please_ let me know. I'm sure that sounds nit-picky, but I have a pretty heavy perfectionist streak (which is brutal at times -- especially so now for some reason), so I would be eternally grateful. *bows* 

Take care, and let me know what you think! ^_^ 


	16. Burn

Disclaimer: Yes, I own each and every right associated with Final Fantasy. You bet. I bought 'em all last week. And if by some chance anyone believes that, I also own a fleet of Porsches, a private jet, and a gold-plated fortress in the Himalayas where I frolic at leisure in obscene hoards of money.

Yeah. That's a good one. Ha ha.

A/N: Yeah, I'm alive. You may proceed to hurl blunt objects at me now. ^^;

Okay, a warning for those who may not like this sort of thing: this chapter's REALLY OC heavy. There shouldn't be too many chapters like this to follow, if any. This is my longest chapter yet, though! *dances* 

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(Come on.)

The twelve attacked as one, meaning to use their strength in number to overwhelm what they surely saw as a lone, overconfident fool. One of them had some great, flimsy-looking monstrosity of a sword not unlike the Masamune in appearance, but it had to be inferior. Another one, the sole female of the group, brandished a simple pair of daggers; the other ten all wielded katana.

Sephiroth slid one foot back and set his heel firmly to the hard earth. Like a great cat posed to ambush its prey, he drew tight every muscle in his body, feeling the fiery tingle of Mako anxious to fuel their release intensify. Jade eyes raked the charging Shinobi.

He gauged, formulated…

(No chance.)

Muscles snapped. Mako surged.

…And he ran, bursting forward with a calculated lunge.

He met them head-on. The Masamune sang in a wide downward arc, and the two nearest Shinobi fell, their throats slit. Half a dozen behind the unfortunate first pair were forced to leap back or away.

The woman vaulted through the gap her comrades had left, spinning a nimble half-turn in midair to light on the shoulder of the General's lowered sword arm, meaning to thwart his balance, but her weight meant little to him. He dipped the shoulder further, ducked, and a wild katana swipe meant for his neck nearly lopped off one of her feet. With a violent Wutaian curse at the other Shinobi's bungled attack, she sprang off, flinging one of her daggers at Sephiroth.

It missed, but the Masamune rose and found her heart before she could know that. She plummeted dead to the ground, and her failed projectile blurred harmlessly past its intended target and plunged into the thigh of the Shinobi who would've left her a cripple had she lived. He, too, started with a profanity, but was quickly silenced when Sephiroth pulled the Masamune down in a silver spin and left him with a bloodless slash to the belly, killed by a wound he didn't even have time to realize that he had.

Sephiroth abruptly halted the motion and thrust the great katana straight behind him, impaling two rushing Shinobi who'd foolishly thought they'd found a window of opportunity. He drew the blade free and snapped the remainder of the circle he'd started, hearing the satisfying squeal of blade severing blade. Three more Shinobi fell away, weaponless, and after a deft flick of the General's wrist led the Masamune in a rapid back swing, lifeless.

Mako coursing through his body like liquid fire, Sephiroth swung the katana around to deal with the last three…and found only two.

(No…I couldn't have…!)

There was a muted click of metal. Sephiroth started to wheel around…and a shuriken clipped his cheek.

Seized by a sudden spasm of rage, his free hand jerked up to snatch the whirring silver less than half a heartbeat after he'd felt its sting. Pivoting completely on his heel, he whipped the shuriken back at -- and buried it in the throat of -- its dumbfounded thrower, who fell dead the same instant as one of the other remaining Shinobi, who'd moved closer to take advantage of the distraction and was run through by a fierce sideward stab of the Masamune.

Incensed further still as he felt wet warmth trickling down his face, Sephiroth once again withdrew the great katana from its latest victim and faced square the last of the twelve…the one with the monstrous blade.

(A…nodachi…wasn't it?) He glared menacingly at his lone opponent, features pulling into a scowl, and took several steps forward.

The Shinobi drew himself up, snarling back at the General like a cornered animal. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it as Sephiroth broke into a sprint straight for him. He somehow managed to catch the enraged young man's overhead strike with the flat of his blade…

…Long enough for him to meet Sephiroth's burning Mako eyes above him.

His own hazel orbs widened. "_A_…_akuma_…!" he gasped, his grip beginning to wobble with fear and strain.

The Masamune bit through the frail blade…and effortlessly sheared through the man's skull.

The halved nodachi clattered to the dirt.

Sephiroth halted his sword but let it linger, watching as the body slid from the blade and crumpled to the ground. He remained motionless for the longest time, staring down at the dead Shinobi, unaware that not all of the blood on his face was his own anymore. The only thing he saw was the corpse at his feet; the only thing he felt was violent, insatiable fury. He heard nothing, and couldn't even tell if the SOLDIERs were still fighting.

Then…something…clicked in his mind, and the anger slowly seeped away. As Sephiroth brought the great katana to rest, his gaze drifted a bit, and he noticed that the rapidly growing pool of blood had nearly found his boots. And then it finally occurred to him, with something he figured akin to shock -- having been through hell almost every day of his life thus far, he wasn't easily surprised -- what he had just done…and that blood wasn't the only thing spilling onto the earth.

A dull chill of revulsion crept over him.

(The Masamune…I…just cut a man's head…in half.)

Bile rose in his throat, and he swiftly turned and stepped away.

All of the others he'd killed, perhaps with the exception of Bailey, had been killed relatively cleanly, with little blood, and a semblance of finesse. But this…this was base savagery. And what for? Because a minute flaw had earned him a minor, stinging wound?

It couldn't have been the bleeding, or the idea of being hurt…heavens, he'd been **shot** not that long ago. And what little pain there'd been was nothing compared to the gnawing Mako ache that had too often robbed him of decent sleep.

(That rage…)

He'd lost his temper before; goodness, had he, but not that explosively. If he had, the Sergeant's death would have been far messier. Not to mention the fact that he would have long ago found a way to successfully do away with that miserable excuse of an existence that was Hojo's life.

(What…was that…?)

He had more control over himself than that. How many more people would be dead if he hadn't? That demoniacal fit…had to be something else. The over-heightened Mako…?

"General Sephiroth!"

Swallowing back his disgust, and heedless of the crimson splattered across his face, Sephiroth looked up and turned to the source of the voice, keeping his line of sight high enough to avoid his most recent handiwork.

A pair of ragged, weaponless troopers emerged from the camp perimeter, both of them running but one clearly in pain and doing so with an awkward gait.

"General, Sir!"

When they were both close enough, they stopped, the wounded one rigidly, and offered formalities. "Major Cressmore sent us to inform you that the remaining Shinobi have been routed," one of the announced. "Sir," he added hastily.

Sephiroth regarded them with practiced stoicism, noting with a twinge of irritation that they were both more interested in surveying the slain Shinobi -- namely trying to catch a glimpse of the one right behind him -- than maintaining proper decorum. Their faces teetered between shock and awe until it dawned on them that not only was the General not acknowledging them or their sentiment, he appeared narrowly upset.

"Sir?" the injured trooper queried hesitantly, drawing himself up in the best form he could and sharply elbowing his partner in the ribs to do the same.

"And?"

"And what, Sir?"

"The Shinobi have been expelled from the camp," he prompted, a tone of annoyance escaping into his voice. (They're too busy gawking to tell me all they were supposed to.) "Is that all?"

"Oh…yes, Sir. That's all. The Shinobi within the camp are gone, and the Major just requests that you return to the commander's tent as soon as you're, um…" Neither could resist a quick perusal of the closely clustered bodies. "…finished here, Sir."

The lilt of sarcasm was blatant, and rightfully should have earned him a stern verbal thrashing, but since Sephiroth had no mind to remain here and reprimand him for something so petty, he chose not to notice it. He wordlessly stepped over a body in his way and started back for the camp, casting a blood-freezing glare at each of the troopers in turn as he passed them. The wisely deadpanned and saluted, remaining at attention until neither heard him anymore.

"Holy shit," the injured trooper muttered in a half-chuckle. "Twelve of 'em? Major Cressmore said he didn't think the General would have taken care of all of them already, but…" He hobbled over to the nearest Shinobi. "They sure look taken care of to me." He looked back over his shoulder, giving the other man a clumsy smile.

"Yeah." He, too, walked forward, but passed his partner and went to stand over the last Shinobi the General had killed, careful not to step in the gore. "Did you see this, though? I mean…**damn**." He motioned at the remains of the nodachi. "Clear through the guy's head, and the blade, too…"

"I know." The other trooper's smile faded as he joined him. "That is one **damn** nasty way to kill a guy, even if it is a Shinobi. The General must have really gotten pissed or something, 'cause none of the others look like that."

They stood in silence for a short moment before the sight got to them, so they turned and headed back as well, the uninjured trooper keeping his pace slack for the other. After a few steps, he cast a sly, darkly amused grin at his comrade. "But y'know…if the General keeps this up…"

The wounded one instantly returned his smirk. "…this war's as good as won."

--------------------

Sephiroth walked a short way beyond the camp's perimeter, passing several sagging, bullet-riddled tents -- and equally as many bullet-riddled and very dead shinobi -- before stopping in the shadow of the first undamaged shelter he came upon. Propping the bloodstained Masamune against the jagged hulk of a crate that looked to have been as tall as him until rather recently, he worked his right glove out from beneath the silver band that held it in place and off his hand. He slowly passed the bared hand over his face, his fingers lingering where the shuriken had slashed his skin. Pale brows knit when he felt no cut, only blood…though he recognized now that some of it was from the last Shinobi.

(I felt it strike…) he mused. (…Here, but…there's nothing…) Dismissing it as an adrenaline-wrought overestimation of its severity, he shook his head, and looked for anything else that had been marred crimson.

There was a smattering of blood on the burnished pauldrons…he'd have to get that off…but thankfully, none on his coat. The Masamune was another story…and now his hand…

He looked up. Scarcely six paces away stood a wavering tent beginning to cave in on itself. From the tallest of its bowing supports fluttered a weatherworn black pennant bearing Shinra's unmistakable vermilion insignia. It clung feebly to the pole, and though it was only material, seemed to beg to be put out of its misery.

Sephiroth obliged it. He stepped over, and, rising in a slight stretch, for the flag was not quite within his reach, easily tugged it free. As he returned to his spot, he wiped the blood from his hand with the ebon cloth. The glove he'd removed was clenched in his teeth, and remained there as he then crouched and set about ridding the Masamune of its stain. When he was satisfied with the katana's appearance, he tossed the flag aside and slipped the glossy sable glove back over his slender fingers. A polish would do the blade well later, but for now he just wanted to get back to the commander's tent and get whatever Cressmore had requested him back for in such a hurry over with. After losing himself and killing that Shinobi so barbarically, he wasn't in the mood for much.

He rose from his crouch, immaculate Masamune in hand, and glanced down at the blood-soaked Shinra standard.

(My blood and Shinobi blood…on the same Shinra flag…) he thought, a wry curl finding his lips as he started walking away. It faded abruptly a few short strides later when he suddenly wondered why he'd found that amusing…

--------------------

Sephiroth reached the commander's tent just as Cressmore finished ordering a handful of the fresher-looking troopers to join the SOLDIERs in scouring the area outside the camp for any straggling Shinobi. Most of the younger, non-ranking troopers were milling about, straightening equipment and supplies, righting what tents could be salvaged, and seeing the savable wounded to the medical shelter. Reyburn was perched atop a grungy steel barrel behind the Major, examining a shallow, ugly gash that tore nearly the length of his left arm. He appeared more annoyed than in any amount of pain, and brushed off any concerned trooper that offered to help him to a medic.

Cressmore waved off the last of the troopers just as Sephiroth arrived, and it was fair to say that the expression that crossed his face was nothing short of shocked. "General!" he exclaimed. "Back already? I take it there weren't many Shinobi left…?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve?" Cressmore's eyes, which had been smoldering cerulean from provoked Mako, seemed to pale. "Oh."

"Well, you certainly fared better than me," Reyburn muttered. "Some Shinobi woman got the jump on me and did this." He raised his head with a muted chuckle. "At least that bullet to her belly did a lot worse."

Relieved that the First Lieutenant had lightened the mood with that stab of vaguely uncalled-for humor, Cressmore allowed himself a brief, meager grin. "You're not hurt then, I take it, General?" he queried.

The cut he'd taken was…gone, and so was the blood, his or not…

"No."

"Good to hear," Reyburn nodded. "As you can see, there's plenty time for that…**no**!" He swatted aside a flustered redhead who couldn't scramble away fast enough. "Damn it, I'm not dying or anything! Honestly…"

The Major loosely draped his arms across his chest and made a brisk perusal of the surroundings. "Well…" he began, "I suppose, all in all, we repelled this attack quite well. No casualty report yet, but from what I noticed, there can't be all that many. The officers are all here, so…" He bit back the rest of his words, suddenly realizing what he'd already said wasn't true.

Sephiroth knew exactly the reason the Major caught his own words.

(Not that I'm surprised.)

"Second Lieutenant Burkell is gone." He didn't even have to make it a question.

Reyburn responded to that one. "Sure is, the bastard. And so is one of our rifles."

"He didn't have much time to leave, and no one saw him do so, but in the midst of a fight, no one would." The blonde frowned. "But yes, General, Burkell's gone AWOL. Someone would have seen him or found his body if he were otherwise."

The glow in Sephiroth's verdant eyes, which had only now begun to lessen, went cold. He didn't have to say a word for the two officers to understand how he felt about that.

Wherever Burkell had gone, whatever he was doing or planned to do, crossing the General again would be a very unwise thing for him to do.

"In any case…" Cressmore paused, searching for something to avert the subject. Burkell would have to be discussed, but that could wait until Mako, tempers, and adrenaline had eased. "While the troopers and SOLDIERs take care of things out here, I suppose now would be as good a time as any for that meeting we postponed earlier."

Reyburn slid off the barrel. "You know, I think I will have this arm looked at," he announced.

"Do that," the Major agreed with a smirk. "Then as soon as you get back, we'll begin."

Donning a mask of pretended dejection, the brunette went on his way, passing his blonde superior with a snort. "Damn."

--------------------

Less than half an hour later, Reyburn returned, his wounded arm cleaned and dressed. The sham glower he'd left with was gone, replaced by a painfully obvious reluctance that deepened into feigned despair when he entered the tent and saw all the paraphernalia Cressmore had spread out atop the old crate. He dropped heavily onto the remaining stool.

"Damn!" He quirked a brow at the Major. "If I'd have known we were giving the General the history of the friggin' world, I would have taken that painkiller they offered."

"The last officer we had to fill in was over six months ago," Cressmore calmly replied. "A lot's happened since."

"I hope you're a night owl, General, 'cause this could take awhile."

"I'll manage."

Knowing Reyburn hated these meetings and was more than capable of delaying it the night if given the opportunity, Cressmore snatched up a sheaf of tactical summaries, angled a marvelously detailed map of Wutai toward Sephiroth, and started explaining. What he didn't realize was that Reyburn wasn't the only one paying merely superficial attention to his oration.

Sephiroth's thoughts were also elsewhere, though likely nowhere akin to what the First Lieutenant was mentally distracting himself with. 

Having done what he just did…there had to be a reason…

"The Shinobi seem to rely on sudden raids, like the one we just repelled."

He'd seen what happened to some combatants who'd been in a war zone too long. He'd lost count of how many SOLDIERs -- who usually saw the most rigorous combat -- had been shipped back to Midgar from Wutai, barely clinging to a fragile thread of sanity. As a guard, he'd overheard many conversations among the officers about how the SOLDIERs had begun to kill with escalating, uncontrollable violence, lost in a berserk haze that sometimes didn't wane when the fight was over.

"We've encountered a few younger -- less traditional, we figure -- Shinobi wielding firearms…they were all Company-issue, so we determined they'd stripped them from fallen troopers in the field."

No one had ever known quite what to blame it on. Mako, some said; those were the SOLDIERs who hadn't been able to handle the spike in power the Mako exuded in the heat of battle. Combat fatigue. Stress. Lack of sleep. Seeing friends die. Killing one of the friends yourself by accident.

"Frontal assaults against them seem to work quite well, contrary to basic military canon."

Now that he truly thought about it, it couldn't have been the Mako; he'd regularly been shot so full of it that it was a wonder his blood wasn't green. That, combined with Hojo's inherent ability to irritate him simply by drawing breath, would have made him a maniac years ago.

"We flanked them here, and routed them before reinforcements could reach them."

He'd been here less than a day. Stress…what a joke; a day without would have been a miracle. A decent night's sleep had been a luxury for as long as he could remember, a luxury he'd long ago learned to do with little or none of. And friends…what friends?

"We lost over two hundred men here…mostly troopers."

What in the **hell** had that been?

"This fight on the western coast, about five months ago, cost us an entire squad of SOLDIERs…Fourteenth Division, Second Class, I believe."

From the furthest depths of his mind, a peal of soft, penetrating laughter wormed its way into his consciousness. 

(Female laughter…)

"We were outnumbered nearly ten to one there…they were unusually well-prepared, and the squad was decimated before they knew quite what was going on."

(Again…?)

"But here…"

Frustration began to pinch his features.

"Sir?"

(I thought I told…it…to leave.)

"General, Sir?"

Sephiroth looked up, banishing the emotion from his face. Cressmore had ceased explaining and was regarding him with an odd mix of concern and bated vexation. Reyburn was staring dumbly at the map his superior had spread open across the crate, by now appearing about as interested in the rote details as a child trapped in a classroom during the last five minutes of a teacher's longwinded lecture.

"Are you well, Sir?" the Major asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," he answered flatly, motioning at the sheaf of papers in the Major's hand. "Go on."

After a moment's hesitation, the blonde dove back into his explanations, resuming precisely where he'd left off…and Reyburn slipped one notch further toward a boredom-induced coma.

--------------------

Short ebon hair plastered to his skull with sweat, tawny eyes hot with shock, the young Shinobi tore through the border of his camp, calling a hasty greeting to the guards to assure them that he belonged. Amidst the stares of his comrades he raced straight for his commander's tent. He never slowed or faltered as he made his way through the gathered men and women, the tents, and the small clusters of supplies scattered about.

"Commander Hottori!" he called as loudly as he could, his throat raw and burning. "Commander Hottori!" As he neared the Commander's tent, the pair of guards at the entrance saw the young man's intensity and never bothered to ask his purpose, or the Commander's permission for him to enter, since he'd no doubt heard the shouts already.

Hottori, a sturdy man of not quite fifty with an aura of battle-earned arrogance about him, sat cross-legged on the tent floor, a cup of sake in his hand and a great musty tome of Wutaian legends in his lap. As the riled young Shinobi burst into the tent, the Commander reluctantly detached his attention from a particularly interesting chapter on weaponry and waited a bit impatiently for him to pay the proper formality. "Yes…what is it?" he all but growled as the Shinobi at last knelt.

"Commander Hottori, I beg all the pardons I can," the young man began, his voice yet thinned from exertion, "but this is of utmost importance."

"So tell it then."

He gave a brusque nod. "Yes, Commander. The raiding party that I was with…the one that you ordered to the Shinra settlement in the southeast of the _Akitani_…was soundly defeated. Only I escaped…and as shameful as that was of me, I felt you should know, Great Commander, that the Shinra forces…have a new leader."

Hottori's rugged face pulled into a frown. He placed the sake carefully to one side. "A new leader…?"

"Yes. The General our scouts have heard mention of…has arrived." The young Shinobi paused, his face blanching as he recalled what he had seen that had spurred him back here with such great haste. "This General…I am certain this man was him, for only a well-ranked person could fight with so superior a technique, and with such terrible speed. I watched him from atop a bluff nearby…watched as he slew twelve of my comrades in so short a time even the mighty gods of Da-Chao would burn with envy."

The Shinobi's hands twitched. "And Great Commander, he is so young…"

"Hold." The Commander leaned forward over his book, his frown replaced with hard incredulity. "Young? How young?"

"Younger than I, Commander," he answered, his dark brows furrowing as he edged his gaze a scant bit higher. "He had silvered hair, but his face…he can't have seen more than twenty winters."

Hottori started at him, unblinking, for several long, awkward moments…before throwing his head back and bellowing with laughter.

Nonplussed, the young man completely lifted his head to gape slack-jawed at his superior. He started to stammer out some kind of protest, but immediately thought better of it, and knelt there in humble silence while his commander made short work of what he'd been convinced of all too vividly was a serious situation.

Still laughing, Hottori swiped up the sake and downed what was left in a single gulp. "No more than twenty winters?" he spat, his laughter dying but an amused smile remaining on his lips. He casually flung the empty cup aside. "The Shinra bastards mock us! Sending a child to command their forces!"

"Great Commander, I mean no disrespect, but I don't believe they are just mocking us." The Shinobi averted his eyes. "And he is no child," he added under his breath.

"By the gods, of course they are, you fool! They mean to show us they think we are feeble enough to be defeated by a mere boy!"

"That 'boy' killed twelve in scarcely more than a moment or two, Commander!"

"A puerile show of power," Hottori scoffed.

As much as he knew he shouldn't, the young Shinobi couldn't withhold his anger at his leader's obstinate mockery any longer. "I know what I saw, Commander!" he harshly insisted. "That was no show of power! This 'boy'…wields the Demon Sword!"

Belting out another hearty peal of laughter, Hottori flipped ahead several pages in the ancient tome in his lap. "This?" he chuckled, stabbing a finger at a finely detailed drawing of a huge, magnificent katana. Old Wutaian script relating its mythical origin and subsequent disappearance, as well as a depiction of a monstrous, grotesque demon, accompanied it.

"That's absurd! That sword is a legend! And even if it wasn't, that boy would have to be a masterfully disguised _oni_ to use it!" He clapped the book shut. "Nearly all of the nodachi look like that," he continued. "Another Shinra dog must have stolen it from a slain Shinobi, and it ended up in this boy's hands."

"Commander…" the young man started to plead, exasperation heavy in his voice.

Hottori didn't seem to notice; he was too occupied trying to stifle another outburst as he waved for the Shinobi's dismissal. "Go. I will send a message to the capital to inform Lord Kisaragi we have a young _oni_ to keep an eye on now."

His derision was moderated accordingly, but the fact that it was there at all upset the Shinobi more than a little. He had just seen this 'boy,' this '_oni_,' as the Commander referred to him, slay twelve of his own with nothing but a superficial wound to show for it, and in less time than he'd thought possible. It wasn't for him to decide, but…Shinra was advanced enough as it was. Was it really a wise idea to write off what looked to be yet another threat to Wutai's chances of victory as a mere taunt?

Shouldn't every instrument of that wretched Company's superiority be dealt with before their ascent to domination became more than just an ever-nearing goal?

Mechanically reciting words of gratitude for Hottori's impromptu graciousness, the Shinobi rose and backed out of the tent, only turning his back to the Commander when he was out in the open again. The guards, having overheard the conversation, looked quietly ill at ease. One of them muttered something about Hottori being a foolhardy sot -- which he doubted was true…him being a sot, that is -- but as tempting as it was, he didn't feel like staying and sharing opinions with either of them.

The allure of finding strong alcohol and drinking himself senseless was far more appealing.

--------------------

"And that brings us to today's attack…" Cressmore flopped the summaries back to the crate. "…Which we don't have a report on yet."

Reyburn stretched his uninjured arm and repositioned himself on the stool. "That's it, then?" he grinned. "You don't want to explain the battles from the last Wutaian shogunate or anything? The pioneers who settled Kalm?"

The Major shook his head and started with a comeback, but when Sephiroth unexpectedly rose, he swallowed it and stood as well.

The General's expression went cross. "Yes?" he snapped. "Am I not free to leave?"

"Yes, Sir," the blonde said. "We're done. If you don't mind my asking, though…where are you planning on going?"

"C'mon…the General doesn't need a babysitter," Reyburn interjected with a roll of his eyes.

Cressmore jerked a stern glare in the First Lieutenant's direction. "Reyburn, that was…"

"I'm going to watch the sunset," Sephiroth interrupted, halting things before the banter went sour. It was asinine either way, but it looked to descend into pure childishness.

That caught both of the officers off guard. 

"To watch the sunset, Sir?" the Major repeated in disbelief, looking back to the platinum-haired young man.

"I've heard Wutaian sunsets are quite spectacular."

"Well…I suppose…" Cressmore began. Somehow, he just hadn't pictured their unorthodox new leader -- one who seemed so…at home…in a fight, no less -- to be interested in such traditionally romantic things as gorgeous sunsets. True, Midgar's diluted dusks were disappointing…and one would almost say disgusting, but…

"The best place for that is on that narrow bluff just southwest of here," Reyburn offered after Cressmore trailed off. "There's a slope on the southern side where you can climb it. I've been there myself."

Sephiroth left without another word, re-sheathed Masamune in hand, turning so sharply that the trailing end of his coat snapped. Both officers remained still for several moments after he was gone.

"Well, that was certainly…abrupt," the brunette at last remarked. "He must have been in a bigger hurry for you to shut up than I was."

Cressmore didn't even make anything of that comment. "I'm just a little concerned that we don't know where Burkell got off to. He made it pretty obvious he hates the General, and if he's got no desire to leave Wutai alive, who knows what the hell he'll try."

"General Sephiroth can handle twelve hostile Shinobi at a time, Cressmore. I think he can manage one crazy bastard with a rifle."

"I know." He sat down again. "And if the Second Lieutenant didn't know how to snipe, I wouldn't even care. But no amount of skill with a blade, even one like the General's got, will stop a bullet from a marksman who's too hidden or far away to see."

"There aren't any snipers in this unit, so none of the rifles in here are built for sniping," Reyburn reminded him. "They're all standard-issue, no silencers. Trained in it or not, he can't snipe with one of those things."

"Ah…true…even so, none of this bothers you?"

"Sure," the brunette shrugged. "But I'm not getting paranoid over it. Burkell's the least of our threats; he's not an army of stealth-fighting discontents. And as far as him hunting down the General…"

"…He's replaceable, right?" Cressmore glanced sideways at the First Lieutenant, a feeble grin on his lips. "That's what they told us once in basic, remember? 'The brass is just as expendable as you ladies are, so don't be completely worthless! Control in the field better not have to fall to a peon who doesn't know what the hell they're doing!'"

"Yeah, that's one part of the creed they make sure you know." Now Reyburn rose. "Look, I wouldn't lose sleep over it," he said. "We can't go all…maternal on each other. That's part of being an officer. Y'know, concerned but detached…all that?"

Deciding the mood had spiraled too black, he gave the blonde a huge, roguish smile. "And like I said…it looks to me like our young General can kick his fair share of ass. I doubt he'll be getting himself killed anytime soon."

Cressmore looked up at the grinning officer, his own expression still lingering shy of melancholy. Minutes passed until finally, despite the misgivings that still skulked in the back of his mind, he succumbed to the First Lieutenant's attempt and returned the expression with a slowly widening smile.

"Damn it, Reyburn…so help me, if you're wrong…" he chuckled.

--------------------

The aqueous horizon languidly drew the sun toward itself, readily accepting the rutilant hue that bled from the sinking orb. More shades of red and purple, yellow and blue, than anyone could ever dream of naming suffused the sky and lit the gauzy, drifting clouds. Moments passed, the sun dipped further, and the entire world was bathed in the poppy-colored halo of a distant, cosmic candle.

If he had actually come here to watch it like he'd said, he might have been impressed.

Sephiroth stood atop the bluff Reyburn had suggested. His emerald eyes -- which glowed quietly now, for the Mako had calmed -- looked in the general direction of the fiery display, but were focused on something far beyond…or nothing at all.

The way he'd killed that last Shinobi…though his impassive manner let on otherwise, it bothered him. That sudden, vicious fury that nothing seemed to justify…

Then there was that minor wound he knew he'd taken more or less disappearing. Mako hastened healing, but it didn't make injuries simply vanish…

That's what I'm here for.

(You again?) Sephiroth scowled.

Again? I never left.

(You will now.)

The voice assumed an indignant air. I will not be ordered…!

(And I will not be intruded upon like this!) he mentally shouted back. (Hojo did enough of that when I was a child! I won't have it!)

The only reply he got was a soft, livid hiss.

He let his eyes focus on the sunset at last, which was now in its greatest throes of brilliance. The sky had grown predominately scarlet, and was truly a breathtaking sight to behold, far superior to the sham of twilight Midgar had, but he was unable to revel in its splendor. All that came to mind from the hue was blood…and fire.

(Spectacular, yes…but really, the world just looks like it's set to burn. This is was people like to see?)

Do something about it and find out.

(I thought I told you to get out.) The scowl deepened into an animalistic snarl. What minimal interest he'd held in the sunset was lost.

You're a smart boy…now quite acting like this!

(Out!)

You insolent…!

"Damn you…go **away**!" he growled.

There wasn't even a hiss.

--------------------

The scrawled characters on the page blurred together. The monster's depiction faded. All that stood out was the drawn Demon Sword.

Commander Hottori had reopened the weighty tome, straight to this particular page, and had been staring at it, contemplating it, ever since the Shinobi scout had left. He hadn't even consumed any more sake.

He'd thought the young man silly, panicked into claiming this new Shinra General wielded the Demon Sword. That was a weapon steeped in more myth than even the creator gods. The most popular tale had it being forged out of white mythril and the hair of a demon too horrible to name by a jealous blacksmith who'd sold his soul to the lord of the ninth hell for the ability to surpass all others in his craft. Most people, even the nobility, found that part bitter and laughable -- such a desperate, final means to simply be a master in his field. Especially since, as the legend went on, the blacksmith eventually died a violent, penniless death, and the mighty katana he'd forged was cursed by the very demon whose hair he was alleged to have created it from, so that none other than its kindred could use it.

He couldn't quite recall the next part…few could, it seemed…but that demon was banished, and the katana, which became aptly named the Demon Sword, was lost.

Many had tried to duplicate the Demon Sword, going by what pictures in the scrolls and books they could find. Its appearance had been loosely copied in their common nodachi, but no one had ever been able to truly replicate the great katana's unholy power.

Hottori's thick ebon brows drew together. The Demon Sword was a legend…a lost legend at that. And _oni_ no longer walked the earth in human guise. That sword their new adversary had…had to be one of those failed attempts at replicating the katana. A nodachi taken from a dead Shinobi as a war trophy…that had somehow ended up in the hands of this silver-haired…boy. It had to be another facet to Shinra's slight -- those hell-spawn sent a boy with flashy swordsmanship to defeat Shinobi with one of their own weapons.

There was no way that that sword he had was **that** blade. Nothing anybody told him could have convinced him that the Demon Sword actually existed, let alone in the hands of that domineering Company. There was just **something** though…old war instincts overriding this supposed certainty…that nagged at him. He'd never been a skeptical man, but having survived as many fights as he had, he still possessed a certain degree of…sensibility about these things. Wutai was in too fragile a state at the time being for him not to be.

Perhaps a bout of nighttime reconnaissance was in order…

"Guard!" he hollered.

One of the Shinobi posted outside the tent rushed in, immediately lowering the stout staff he held, and knelt. "Commander."

Hottori closed the book, and this time set it entirely aside. "Bring me Captain Sanzo."

--------------------

The sun had set well over an hour ago. The sky, not quite black had the depth and sheen of indigo velvet. Spectral pinpricks of stars had begun to appear, and the late season moon was already near its apex and starting to brighten to its familiar pale luminescence.

Sephiroth had started to go back some time ago, but the closer he'd gotten to the southern slope, the more he'd thought better of it. He ended up turning right around and walking in the direction he'd just come from, passing the place he'd stood earlier and going to the complete opposite end of the bluff. It was the side closest to the camp, but he was still unnoticeable from below.

He didn't get lost in thought right away up here; he usually did when in such solitude, but now he just…stood. Watched…nothing really, yet at the same time something. It was just…better…being away.

He remembered how he used to so hate being lonely…ignored. Always ignored. That was one of the personal justifications he'd used when Hojo had ordered him into SOLDIER -- he would get too famous to be ignored. He would always be recognized, respected…feared…

A breath of chilled air ruffled his argent mane. Sephiroth looked up at the moon, forcing his Mako eyes to find something tangible. His features remained taut with some deep-seated, unrelenting spark of anger.

He had seen the fear in the troopers' eyes when they'd noticed the last slain Shinobi.

Was that what it was going to take to be feared? Making savagery like that a habit? Tallying more kills than anyone else?

He closed his eyes.

(That…I can do. That I will do. But no more…like the last. I will remain as I am outside of battle…in battle. I cannot, and will not, allow that to happen again. I have too much…skill…to resort to that.)

Down below, somewhere in the camp, he heard a hearty, full-bellied laugh.

(I used to hate that…hearing others laugh, because I couldn't do the same. All those people in the street, below my window, in that pitiful hole of a house…)

/**_And I especially hate them. Those people that are so happy…when I can't be._**/  


How dare they…

(Can't you take a hint?)

…Of course… the voice whispered cloyingly. Can I not make an offer of sympathy…?

(I don't need it. Even if I did, whoever you are, I certainly wouldn't take it from you.)

Insolent **and** harsh, I see… The saccharine sweetness was gone. And with that snide remark, once again, so was the voice.

Another breeze sighed. Another laugh rang.

Sephiroth at last relaxed his expression to the stoicism he'd learned to have.

(But I don't need that foolish laughter. And I'm not lonely. I'm…alone. I wouldn't know how else to have it any more.)

A niggling premonition about…something…unexpectedly scattered his thoughts. He opened his eyes. A second's pause, and he started to turn, shifting them to the edge of the cliff behind him.

(A noise…?)

Now he turned completely.

(No…just the troopers…)

His steps quick and quiet, Sephiroth crept -- for a mere suspicion he wasn't even sure of yet -- to the lip of the bluff. He peered over it to the ground below, his fingers restlessly flexing around the Masamune's handle.

This side was the closest to the camp, though still far enough away that only a SOLDIER stood a chance of seeing any details of it clearly -- and in the growing dark, only if he had had superior vision to begin with. The ground here was also in the cliff's shadow, with the barest of moon rays just beginning to brush past the sheer face. The ideal place for lurkers.

Seven of them, in fact.

The Shinobi were clad head to toe in black; had it been full night, they would have gone unseen. Six of them were literally bowing to one…and in the blink of an eye, weren't. They'd taken flight along the cliff bottom, skirting the camp.

And they weren't fleeing from anything. They were headed straight to where they could break from the cliff's shadow and infiltrate the settlement's heart with little resistance.

Had they still held their element of surprise, that is.

No hesitation. Not a thought.

Sephiroth snapped into a run to match the Shinobi, and then some; he barely felt his feet striking the stone. It didn't occur to him there wasn't a slope on this end. It didn't matter.

He veered closer still to the edge. Springing with his own momentum, and soundlessly freeing the Masamune…he leapt from the cliff.

--------------------

For what seemed the hundredth time since Sephiroth had left, Cressmore swatted aside the canvas flap and stepped outside, his eyes fervently raking the cliffs to the southwest. Once again, one of the rifle-bearing guards absently assured him that the General hadn't returned yet. And…once again…the Major went back inside, an aggravated frown pinching his boyish features.

"Hey, take it easy, Major," Reyburn chided in a half-yawn, shifting the stool he was sitting on a bit so he could lean back against the ammunition crate. "I thought I told you not to go all motherly."

"I'm not." With a huff, the blonde folded his arms over his chest. "Sunset was over an hour and a half ago. Hell, the moon's up already. Considering the circumstances, I think a little concern's justified."

"Then send a few SOLDIERs out to…"

A shriek of skirling steel suddenly pierced the stillness…and not all that far away.

Cressmore was gone.

"Well, holy shit," Reyburn grumbled, rising to follow him, though he had enough wits about him to grab a pistol. "The Shinobi are getting bolder, Burkell went AWOL, and now he's paranoid…" He heaved a sigh and cocked the sable handgun as he stepped outside. "Bloody Ifrit…either hell just froze over, or it's getting time to go home."

Several curious, unoccupied troopers were running by in the direction of the cliff to the southwest -- the one that curved halfway along the camp's western perimeter, and the one General Sephiroth had gone to earlier. The would-be onlookers must not have thought the noise a threat, for none bore any obvious weapons.

Reyburn went that way as well, though at an even faster pace. The Major was nowhere to be seen; it occurred to him then, for no reason, that he'd never really realized how fast the blonde could run, Mako-spurred or not. He only hoped that had Cressmore already discovered the source of the commotion, it hadn't been his suspicions turned truth. Be they officers or frontline grunts, he knew the young blonde habitually got attached to certain people just…being around.

Though he'd only been here a day, Reyburn had a feeling the General was one of those people.

Passing through the last line of tents, he at last saw the Major. There, just beyond the diffused lantern light at the camp's edge, stood Cressmore, staring intently at the base of the cliff.

Reyburn didn't even have to be as close as him to see what held him rapt.

He saw the General distinctly even in the shadow, his darker-still attire and platinum hair setting him apart. The great katana was naked in his hand. His back was to them; at his feet were several still, ink-black forms…and what appeared to be shattered weapons.

"General!" the Major called. "General, are you…?"

Sephiroth turned slowly, deliberately to face them. In the dark, his eyes shone like emerald stars. And when he moved several steps away from the cliff's presence, into the soft argent radiance of the growing moonlight, both his hair and his blade assumed a cold, ethereal white luster.

"Shinobi, Sir?"

"I think that's pretty obvious, Cressmore," Reyburn, now standing at the blonde's side, scoffed under his breath.

Ignoring his comment, the Major jogged out to take a better look at what had happened. Reyburn cast a stern, don't-even-think-about-it glare to the troopers that had gathered and would have gladly done the same before he followed Cressmore.

"One of the Shinobi with the attacking party must have escaped," Sephiroth explained when both were near enough to hear. His eyes darted downward; he stooped to retrieve something dark…the lacquered sheath. "It appears word travels quickly among them."

Cressmore bristled. "This group…was after you, General?"

"If they'd only been sent to spy, they wouldn't have had such ready weapons." He looked back at the Shinobi and nudged one of the severed katana with the toe of his boot. "They meant to kill any of the perimeter guards who might have seen them, and infiltrate the commander's tent. And I doubt they were after either of you, because I'm sure if they had been they would have killed you a long time ago."

Sephiroth gazed down at the Shinobi a moment longer before abruptly brushing past both officers as he headed back within the camp. "Leave the bodies," he ordered over his shoulder. Deftly snapping the Masamune into its sheath, he added, "As a warning."

(I came here to fight a war, not stave off would-be assassins…no matter which side they're on.)

The Major's shoulders sagged a bit as he, too, looked over at the bodies. "This…is unreal," he murmured.

Reyburn slipped the pistol's safety back in place. "How many are there?"

"Seven, I think," the blonde answered, "but that's not what I mean." Frowning, he turned to Reyburn. "It's only been one day, and already one officer has turned coat, after trying to kill the General, no less. It looks like the Shinobi have resumed their attempts at night killing, also after the General. And then there was what happened with Sergeant Bailey…"

The First Lieutenant had gone uncharacteristically solemn, as if he already knew what his superior was getting at.

"The Shinobi…I'd expect they would be wary of any newcomers, but trying to hunt the General down already? And two attempts on his life by fellow officers in a matter of a day or two?"

Reyburn nodded. "Kinda makes you wonder what the hell he's done to earn attention like that."

"I always thought getting new blood in here was a good thing, especially when skill and strength is proven so…well…like this." The Major heaved a deep breath and started to leave. The First Lieutenant was right behind him. "Apparently, though…that's not common sentiment."

--------------------

"Two hours…the Captain has not returned…" Hottori scowled. "The camp isn't so far away that it would take him two hours to get there and find that boy…"

Whether this…child…supposedly had the Demon Sword or not, being rid of him would lay to rest any uncertainty, real or imagined. Unholy weapon, _oni_ or not…threat or not…in death, it wouldn't matter either way. 

"Great Commander!"

The same guard he'd sent earlier for Sanzo ducked inside the tent, bewilderment and moderated alarm twisting his expression into something nearly unreadable. He knelt, like he was supposed to, but the movement was…numb. He swallowed hard, visibly at a loss of what to say.

"Yes…?" the Commander urged.

Unnerved over some strange thing, the Shinobi glanced over his shoulder at the entrance, where a faintly discernable silhouette now stood. "There is someone to speak with you, Great Commander."

So Sanzo had returned at last.

Irritated, Hottori motioned the guard out. "Yes, yes…then send him in already."

"Of course, Commander." He rose, bowed, and started to back out, but before he'd gone two steps, the entrance flap was slapped aside.

Hottori blanched and sucked in a breath. "By the gods of Da-Chao…"

Sanzo had not returned. He never would. And the man who stood before him would never return to his leader, either.

--------------------

A/N: So…bearable? Honestly…nothing seemed to work out in this chapter. Ew.

I meant to make a note of this last time, but if anybody would like to be notified when this is updated, drop me an email or let me know in your review.

Comments, suggestions, questions…go ahead, throw 'em at me. I have to keep this note kinda short because my Quark homework is just sitting here on my desk and bugging the hell out of me. I haven't had much sleep in the past couple days, either, so I'd better get it done before the caffeine wears off and I slip into a coma.

Oh, and before I forget…if my semester of Japanese hasn't failed me, _Akitani_ translates into something like "Autumn Cliff." If it HAS failed me, then I hope it at least doesn't translate into something…odd. o_O 

And I can't forget this: Thank you, CG! ^_^ 

~GMR~ 


	17. A Strange Turn of Events

"How in the hells did you…?" Hottori sputtered, reaching for the sheathed katana that lay on the tent floor next to him.

"Ah ah," the newcomer scolded. "I don't think you'll be wanting to use that."

The guard tensed at the warning, and moved to bar the path to his commander, undaunted even when he found a rifle's muzzle at his heart.

Hottori's hand lingered above the katana, but he didn't withdraw it. "What exactly do you think you're doing, you Shinra hound?" he demanded with angry defiance.

"Call off your little guard dog here and I'll tell you."

After a moment's hesitation, Hottori nodded brusquely at the young guard, who reluctantly backed out of the way.

"That's better. I'd hate to have to cause a problem my first day with my new…cause." At Hottori's quizzical look, the man lowered his weapon and added with an amused chuckle, "What, you're never seen a defector?"

Hottori stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"Look, I know you people are about as interested in talking and negotiation as the Company, so I'll cut to the chase." A malicious grin curled the soldier's lips. "SOLDIER just got a new leader. He is a young, arrogant, murdering son of a bitch, and there is no way in heaven or hell or anything in between that I will take orders from him. Take me in, and if he gets too close, I'll see to it he gets a nice little bullet right between those freaky green eyes of his."

Hottori's hand finally came to rest on the katana's handle. "What kind of a fool do you take me for? You actually expect me to believe trash like that?" he snapped. "Not a one of you pigs can be trusted, so why should I find you the exception?"

"How many of us 'pigs' have no desire to leave here?"

The Commander said nothing. The guard was visibly taken aback. This man…this SOLDIER…speaking things like that with such finality…

"Are you insane? What kind of talk is that?" Hottori scoffed.

"Oh, I'm perfectly sane," the SOLDIER replied, going dead sober. "I'm just not going to waste energy anymore trying to get back home to a place I don't believe in anymore. I've got nothing worth going back to…enough's enough, y'know?" he added with a wry quirk of his mouth. He shrugged. "So…if you don't want to risk it and trust me…hey, what the hell. I may just have to put a bullet between your eyes, too…but what the hell. I just figured since neither of us are all that fond of Shinra, Inc. anymore, I may as well do both of us a favor…and reap the benefits of a little Shinobi hospitality 'til its over."

Hottori remained silent, mentally warring between common sense and old military instinct. Common sense screamed at him that this one would turn out no differently than any other turncoat, despite his…morbid…claim; it could end up being nothing short of disastrous. Military instinct, however, found this a subtle, yet potentially invaluable opportunity. And not once had he seen someone so resolute about not going home…that couldn't be something easily feigned. 

And if this SOLDIER did act out of line, or even lasted until the end of the war…it certainly didn't sound like he'd terribly mind a swift death…

He _was_ with Shinra, though…

"So? What do you think of that? Protection until the end of the war for an _elite_ hired gun?"

Hottori glanced down at the katana…and slowly removed his hand from it. "I think…" He paused, a ghost of a smile brushing across his features. "…You are most welcome here…Burkell."

--------------------

The walk back to the commanders' tent was a quiet one. Cressmore was deep in serious thought, and Reyburn had enough respect for him not to disturb that reverie. Halfway there, however, the Major's pace slowed, and the First Lieutenant followed suit, even stopping, when he realized his superior was about to say something.

"Reyburn," the blonde began tentatively, "do you think…maybe…there's any kind of chance that Burkell was right about the General?" He looked up at the taller man to gauge his expression. "That maybe…him killing Bailey…wasn't entirely out of self-defense?"

Reyburn's russet brows arched in mild surprise. "You're joking, right? You're not actually considering taking that crackpot's tirade as gospel, are you?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest and shifted to one foot as he regarded Cressmore with guarded incredulity. "C'mon, we know Bailey and Burkell were friends…how couldn't they be? I mean, Burkell probably had an idea Bailey had a hand in his own demise, but admitting that your friend's got murderous tendencies and knowingly pissed off someone who could rightfully do something about it -- to someone much younger than and who outclassed both of them -- isn't something he'd likely do."

The blonde frowned. "Yeah," he sighed, "but I mean…well, not taking Burkell's assumption as truth, but doesn't it just seem like there's something…different about the General?" He, too, folded his arms. "People can do some pretty strange things if there's a strong enough influence, and…I don't know…it just seems like in his case…it could be there, you know? And not just Mako or anything."

The perplexed look on the First Lieutenant's face answered for him.

Cressmore shrugged and threw up his hands in defeat. "Ah, never mind," he said, shaking his head and offering a transparent smile. "It's…probably nothing. I'm just tired or something; it's been a strange day."

"Sure, it's nothing," Reyburn snorted softly. "You are one shitty liar, you know that?"

Cressmore went solemn. "Say…I'm…gonna go check on something." It was as if Reyburn hadn't spoken at all. "Go on back. I'll be there in a couple minutes."

The brunette uncrossed his arms.

The Major smiled again, and this one appeared a shade truer. "I'm sure you can entertain the General by yourself for a bit."

"Oh, you bet," Reyburn nodded, letting the conversation shift where the blonde led it. "Maybe we can wax philosophically about the meaning of life. Quantum physics would work, too."

Cressmore got a genuine chuckle out of that. "Sounds good to me."

Reyburn watched as Cressmore turned and walked back the way they'd come from, shortly disappearing among the rows of tents and their pitch shadows. He remained a moment after he could no longer see him, trying to divine a reason for this sudden doubt about General Sephiroth…who the blonde had seemed to latch onto right away. It wasn't odd for him to do that…latch onto someone, that is…but to suddenly take another's incredible accusation into serious account about that someone…that just wasn't like him at all.

Not unless there really was…

"Oh, whatever," he huffed, continuing for the tent. "I'm not even taking my own advice. He'll spill it if he thinks I should know what the hell he's talking about." He forced his mind off the subject and onto working out a suitable compliment for the General; already tallying kills, and he hadn't even been here a day…that warranted some kind of praise. He didn't rehearse much beyond that, though, because it thus far didn't appear like the young man was much of a conversationalist.

Arriving at the tent, he swept aside the entrance flap, the comment poised on his lips…

…But he wasn't there.

"Huh." Reyburn slipped the pistol from his belt and set it on the crate. He swatted aside the tent's divider, thinking the General might have retired for the night; a second's perusal told him he wasn't there, and hadn't been any time recently. "I wonder where the hell else he would have gone. It's not like…the mess tent or anything would be offering anything anymore," he mused. "I suppose…he could demand something, but it doesn't look like he eats a whole lot, anyway."

He walked back outside, habitually retrieving the handgun as he passed it. Re-holstering it on his belt, he turned to one of the guards. "Say…did the General come back here at all?"

The guard snapped a truncated salute. "No, Sir," he replied, "but I did see him coming this way. It's strange, Sir…he stopped just out there…only for a moment, like he was thinking about something…then went that way instead." He pointed toward the northeast.

The northeast? There wasn't anything special there. The bluffs…but there wasn't exactly a lot to see this time of night. That was where the Shinobi had come from earlier…why would he go back there, though?

The Shinobi…

"Oh, damn," Reyburn hissed, starting for the bluffs. "Why am I thinking this is gonna be some weird shit again…?"

--------------------

"You've got to be kidding," Cressmore murmured in disbelief, his strides quickening as he neared the northeast edge of the camp. "In half? What in Ramuh's name would possess him to do that? Shiva…I don't know…now I think I am beginning to wonder."

He passed the last row of tents…and stopped short. Sephiroth, his back to him, stood some distance away, the Masamune bare in one hand, its ebon sheath in the other. Several dark, shapeless forms lay on the ground before him.

The Shinobi from the raid.

Finding it odd that the General hadn't gone back to the commanders' tent -- and fervently wishing he had -- Cressmore resumed his trek, halting quietly a respectable distance behind his superior. "Sir," he said, "what are you doing out here?" An uneasy ache instantly arose, gnawing at the back of his mind; uncertain what was provoking such a pang, he quickly tried to force it aside.

Sephiroth didn't answer right away; he didn't even acknowledge the Major's presence. A long, uneasy silence passed before he finally replied, in a low, emotionless voice, "Am I not free to go where I choose?"

The unorthodox reply -- and the tone in which it was spoken -- caught the blonde off guard. "Well, of course, Sir. I was just…curious."

"Curiosity can be dangerous, Major."

Cressmore had to mull over that one a moment, trying to figure out where such odd words had come from. He ultimately chose to disregard them; he'd decided he needed to ask the new leader something -- unwise as he was beginning to feel it was -- and now was as opportune a time as any. He couldn't let a cryptic barb like that deter him.

Despite the uncertainty that now wouldn't seem to leave him alone, he really wanted to trust the General…but there was just something…he had to know.

Cressmore settled back into a proper resting stance, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "If you don't mind, Sir…I'd like to ask you something."

Sephiroth cocked his head, but still didn't turn to face him. He seemed content to gaze at the form, the body, at his feet -- the one, Cressmore now noticed with an ill turn of his stomach, that had had his head cleaved in two. "Go right ahead."

There was that same chill…not right…timbre.

"Was this Shinobi…killed this way…in anger? And was Bailey…killed in anger as well? Not just self-defense?"

Now Sephiroth slowly turned and looked the Major square in the eye. The luster in his jade orbs played dangerously at cruel, untainted…insanity. The expression on his face was eerily flat -- not cold, or solemn, or even irritated.

There was just nothing there.

Cressmore paled. That unsettling weight he'd tried to push aside…was truth. There was something seriously wrong with the situation. No…there was something seriously wrong with the General.

It wasn't…him.

"I don't care for what you're implying, Major," Sephiroth answered at last.

The blonde swallowed hard. "I don't mean to imply anything, Sir. I'm just…concerned, that's all. I shouldn't have…"

"Concern indeed," Sephiroth sneered. "You believe that…fool, don't you?"

Cressmore opened his mouth to refute that, but the hostile glare that flared in those Mako eyes told him that hadn't truly been meant as a question.

A strange grin curled Sephiroth's lips. He motioned down to the Shinobi at his feet. "Tell me…is this how you'd like to die?"

Visibly unfazed by the threat -- why, he wasn't even sure, Cressmore held fast the General's gaze. "You won't kill me, Sir," he declared; as defiant as he intended to sound, he couldn't suppress an unnerved waver from thinning his voice. "You don't…want to kill me."

"No?" The sheath clattered to the dirt; he took the Masamune in both hands. "I believe I do."

His voice lilting in a…mad…singsong, Sephiroth deftly swept the great blade up…but he didn't strike.

"General!"

Cressmore vaguely heard Reyburn's call, but he made no indication of it. He could only watch, his faint alarm rapidly fading, as the General…realized what he was about to do.

Sephiroth somberly lowered the Masamune; his emerald eyes regained their cool, familiar light.

Reyburn, who'd gotten to the camp's edge just in time to see the sword raised to strike and shouted for its wielder, now ran for his two superiors. He clumsily returned the gun -- which he'd drawn just in case -- to his belt.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed when got to them. "What's going on here?"

The Major remained silent. In fact, he barely heard his fellow officer. He was too enraptured in trying to read what was going on in the General's mind, and though the younger man was doing a spectacular job of not displaying it, two emotions were stirring violently behind those Mako eyes -- not that brief jag of madness, but subtle, barely discernable bewilderment…and fury.

"Cressmore, what's…"

His movement composed despite his obvious ire, Sephiroth knelt to retrieve the sheath, snapped the katana in its place, and rose. Without a word to either of them, he spun sharply on his heel, and nimbly sidestepping his brutal kill, started walking toward the bluffs.

And much to Reyburn's shock, even knowing the blonde's nature, Cressmore hurried after him.

"Sir!"

Sephiroth reluctantly slowed his pace, but didn't stop. "What?" he barked, harsher than he'd even intended.

Cressmore continued a fair length behind him for a moment, hoping the General would stop and look at him. Not that he wanted to try and put Sephiroth on a guilt trip, if indeed he could…no, he only wanted to see if that malicious…alien…glow was still absent from his eyes. When Sephiroth made no indication of complying with his unspoken wish, he addressed him as he was.

"Sir, are you okay?"

Sephiroth said nothing at first, giving only a bitter chuckle. "I just came within seconds of killing you…and you ask if _I'm_ okay?"

The blonde's brows furrowed, but he didn't say anything.

"I assure you, Major, I am perfectly fine," he insisted, a harsh steel edge to his voice.

"No offense, but you're a poor liar, Sir," the Major softly replied.

/You're a poor liar, Sephiroth./

Now Sephiroth abruptly halted and angrily wheeled to face him. He was irate, apparently over the meager criticism, but the rage that shone in his verdant orbs was different from before. This ferocity…was his own.

Cressmore frowned. "I apologize, Sir, for asking you what I did. I shouldn't have doubted you in the first place, and…I won't bring it up again."

Sephiroth's grip on the Masamune's bound handle tightened; beneath the black leather of his glove, his knuckles were dead white. He didn't even try to mask the vexation…the disgust…in his response. "Don't patronize me," he spat.

And without allowing the blonde any further words…he continued toward the bluffs.

It didn't take long for even his moonsilver hair to be lost beneath their lightless stature.

The Major didn't follow this time.

"Ifrit's flaming ass!" Reyburn shouted, running to join Cressmore. "Are you okay? Is he okay? What the hell…?"

Cressmore slowly shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. "And so is the General. About all that got hurt was his pride…I think." 

--------------------

Sephiroth stopped just after rounding the cliff base, where he could plainly hear the steady rush of the ocean and see its silver and cerulean glimmer.

Not that he cared.

"What…in the _hell_ was I doing?" he murmured in incensed disbelief. His free hand curled into a painfully taut fist; he raised it to strike the stone beside him, but realizing what attention that might draw, reasoned against it and instead forced his fingers loose.

"That…would have ruined everything I have…" he mused, gazing with an inexplicable curiosity at his now open hand, "…and I don't even know why I…"

He trailed off as his fury intensified and the searing rage pinched his features into a savage snarl.

She…it…that voice…was laughing.

At him.

(That was you, she-demon, wasn't it?) he demanded.

Oh, my…you command me to shut up and order me to leave you alone, and now you call for me? A fickle child, aren't you?

(Don't toy with me, whatever the hell you are! You…made me do that, didn't you?)

I didn't _make_ you do anything. she coyly replied. Am I to blame that you have a penchant for gruesome killing and homicidal temper swings?

(I wasn't even mad, you…bitch.) he growled. (And don't you dare accuse me of being proud of that!)

Her response was an unpleasant cacophony of ear-splitting shrill and nerve-grating hiss. You wretched brat!

(Don't you _ever_ intrude like that again! I won't allow you to ruin everything I'm finally getting!)

Who do you think you're commanding, boy? And how exactly do you think you got this far?

(I am commanding _you_ to get the hell out of _my_ mind, so I can continue to get the things I deserve _by my own hand_!)

She laughed again, this time with scornful amusement, and what Sephiroth could have sworn was a twinge of pity. …It's almost a shame…hmm… She fell silent a moment, as if contemplating his demand. Fine…you want your way so badly, you naïve child, then you shall have it. But I promise you this…you are a fool if you think I will ever just disappear. Mercilessness not unlike Hojo's chilled her tone. That fool scientist isn't the only one you'll never be rid of.

/See this? This…is my blood./

/And this is your blood. Our blood is one and the same. That is why../

/…you will never, _ever_ be rid of me. Not in life, and never in death. Do you understand that?/

"We'll see about that." Hatred for both Hojo…and her…clenched his fist and his chest. "Once I get back to Midgar, that conniving bastard _will_ explain this…or I _will_ relieve him of his head. And," he added with a cold smirk, "I'd like to hear him laugh after that."

--------------------

"He bested Lieutenant General Merser's rank by rights of a duel…why wouldn't he be fit to be here? I mean, who am I to judge his behavior? Everyone freaks out once in awhile, for one reason or another…"

Cressmore was back in the commanders' tent, perched on his stool, his arms loosely crossed over the edge of the crate. He started blankly at a heavily marked map of northern Wutai…not that he could see much anyway, because the batteries in the lone lamp were failing, and thus so was its light. He was far too deep in though -- and needless to say, too concerned about the General -- to even consider going to bed. Reyburn had turned in a short time ago, and was already snoring like a small Behemoth.

Reyburn…he'd never been one to lose a lot of sleep over much of anything, and this time, considering he didn't know what this particular ' anything' was -- and hadn't badgered for an explanation more concrete than 'my question got answered' -- he certainly had no reason to.

The Major swept both hands through his golden hair and heaved a profound sigh. "Oh, hell," he huffed, "I'm getting way too analytical with all this. I know now Burkell was wrong…and the General didn't kill me. He realized what he was doing…something I'd like to believe wasn't entirely voluntary, and stopped himself. That says something, I think. I don't know what happened with Sergeant Bailey, or that Shinobi, but…"

"The Sergeant hated me because he knew I was already something he had failed to become."

Startled, Cressmore clambered to his feet to find himself face-to-face with his Mako-eyed General. "Shiva, you're quiet, Sir! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." Sephiroth walked past him, as if he meant to leave it at that and go to the back to sleep. He paused, though, not quite there, and turned to squarely face the Major. "You asked what I was doing out there," he said, his words even, if not a shade austere. "I'd like to ask the same."

Even though that question had never really been answered, Cressmore wasn't going to remind him of it or argue. "I was a bit curious, Sir, after seeing those assassins you took care of, so I went and questioned the troopers I had sent for you earlier. They hadn't seen you fight, but said it looked like you'd…lost your temper…with one of the Shinobi. I wasn't really sure if I should believe them, so I was coming out there…" He lowered his eyes. "…I wanted to prove to myself they were just telling me a story…and that Burkell was just being a bullheaded ass."

He gave a feeble laugh. "As good a SOLDIER as he is…was…he was always good at that." He looked up at Sephiroth again. "Well, I know the Shinobi wasn't a story, but…I guess I really have no reason not to believe what Lieutenant General Merser told us about Sergeant Bailey's death. Even after wondering if Burkell might have been right for once…I'd still trust the Lieutenant General over him any day."

"I see."

"Well, if it means anything, Sir…the troopers were quite impressed with how you took care of those Shinobi. The last one especially, they said. ' It was nasty, Sir, but if the General keeps that up, not only will we slaughter the Shinobi, but we'll have the ones that are left pissing themselves!'" He tried a grim smirk. "Something along those lines, I believe."

(The worst one. The one…she…must have had a hand in…and that's what most impresses them.)

Sephiroth didn't respond to his halfhearted attempt at black humor; in fact, it almost appeared to rekindle the anger he'd walked off with before.

"I wouldn't make a whole lot of that, Sir," Cressmore explained on a more serious note. "A lot of these troopers have been here too long…and that's the only kind of humor they can find in all of this."

"Then I think it's about time I won this war," Sephiroth answered, stoicism settling back on his features. 

"I hope so, Sir," the Major smiled.

(And since I'm apparently such a terrible liar…)

His jaw clenched as if it was difficult for him to say, Sephiroth continued, "And…that…will never happen again."

"Of course not, Sir." Cressmore didn't even have to consider what he was referring to. Quite frankly, he didn't care.

He believed him. 

--------------------

"So, tell me…" Hottori flipped to the page depicting the Demon Sword, then turned the book so Burkell could get a look. "…This silver-haired youth…does this look like the blade he wields?"

He stole a quick peek at the illustration. "Sure," he shrugged, unconcerned. "What the hell does it matter?"

Hottori blanched and very deliberately shut the ancient tome. "What does it matter? This blade…is one that can only be wielded by the kin of one of the most malignant devils ever to curse existence! It is a cursed _oni_'s blade!"

Burkell blinked. A slow smile melted onto his lips. "Yeah," he snorted. "Sure thing." He tugged the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and slipped one out of it. "About all he is…is a freak-of-nature bastard with a weapon as tall as he is and an attitude that should have gotten him killed a long time ago." Without even asking the Shinobi officer if he minded, he whipped his lighter out, lit the cigarette, and took a long draw off of it. "He's no devil."

Hottori set the book aside. "For my people's sake, SOLDIER, I pray to all the gods you are right."

"Sure as hell I'm right," Burkell insisted. He gave the rifle, which he'd set beside him on the tent floor, a pat. "Next time he crosses me," he began with a fiendish grin, "you'll see just how non-demonic…and killable…he is."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Good @*&$^! grief! It's certainly been long enough, hasn't it? That wasn't a chapter of monumental length, but I hope the quality's still there. I had this ready to post yesterday, but of course my computer had to freak out on me. O_o; 

Yeah…anyway, thanks for reading -- and for the feedback, of course! ^_^


	18. Gift

A/N: No, your eyes do not deceive you. Behold, I present to you…an actual update.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had scarcely pushed its way above the azure horizon when the encampment burst into activity. The reports of myriad firearms and the squeals and clashes of dueling steel echoed as purposefully irate drill sergeants bellowed and swore troopers and SOLDIERs alike into fervent practice. Those troopers and SOLDIERs, some furious and irritated, some boisterous, and some that were just really into their training, shouted and hollered to match to match their taskmasters.

And though very few paid any mind to the proud and majestic pagodas now towering in deceptively easy reach, this very same time tomorrow would find very few focusing in anything else.

The camp, the very one Shinra's new general had been stationed at just over a year ago, was now nestled near Wutai's eastern coast within mere miles of the sprawling capital city. The strategic -- and for now, precarious -- location had been won through a series of skillfully aggressive campaigns that would have had the strictly 'by-the-book' tacticians in Midgar setting fire to their martial playbooks in vehement protest. And several solo, dangerously absurd strikes this general had waged against small Shinobi settlements had nearly made a couple active officers do the same.

But now that they'd made such a swift and decisive advance and were now preparing for what everyone hoped would be the last strike they'd need to make…those attacks didn't seem quite so ludicrous anymore.

Within the settlement, SOLDIERs and troopers wielded their Company-issue weapons with a vocal intensity that would only be outdone when the march on the capital actually occurred. Outside the settlement, however, on the fine, pale sand of the broad eastern beach, one weapon -- chosen and not given -- wove a soft silver melody, its wielder's intensity silent and reserved…and far more dangerous than anything the rest could muster.

The Masamune returned from a lunging, one-handed thrust, humming its last note as Sephiroth easily caught its handle with his free hand and pulled it to a sudden rest a hairsbreadth shy of butting against a pauldron. He held the stance a perfect, breathless moment, a thin smile of satisfaction touching his lips.

As the sword's music stilled, he realized with a mild twinge of irritation that he was being applauded.

And he knew who the offender was without even looking.

With a swift, fluid arc, he snapped the great sword into the sheath at his hip. "I came out here to escape the audience, Reyburn," he said, annoyance clipping his tone.

The First Lieutenant strolled out from the fringe of the beach to join his superior. "Ah ha," he chuckled, gradually ceasing his applause. "That's why you weren't at the training yard. Here I thought there was something wrong with it."

"I'm fine with the yard," he snapped, "and had the observing not escalated to near-fanatic ogling, I may have even been fine with that, too."

Reyburn had a hard time restraining his response so as not to insult the mercurial General. "I see." He flashed an ear-devouring grin. "Some of the onlookers weren't there to watch your swordsmanship, eh?"

The corner of the swordsman's mouth rose in a slight curl of disdain.

"Must be something, if your rank doesn't even put 'em off from doing that."

"Indeed," he sighed. He faced the brunette and crossed his arms, suddenly eager to change the subject. "I take it you weren't just out for a casual stroll."

"Hell no," Reyburn laughed, "not here and definitely not now." He jerked his head toward the camp. "Colonel Hawkin from 147th just had some information dropped with Cressmore that he needs your okay on ASAP. I guess he had to make some rearrangements to his SOLDIER Second Class squad, and he's gotta have your authorization on it."

Still annoyed at having his training interrupted, Sephiroth heaved an overly dramatic sigh as he walked past the other officer. "I think it's a bit late for squad rearrangements," he huffed, making an uncharacteristically poor attempt to mask his irritation with skepticism.

"So do I." Reyburn turned but didn't follow him. "But from what I saw of the paperwork, it looks like over half of the 147th got slaughtered in a freak ambush last night."

Already some distance away, Sephiroth halted.

"He had to shift manpower."

Sephiroth stared down at the white sand sparkling and sifting over the sturdy, glossy black of his boots. "Ah." He glanced over his shoulder at the First Lieutenant. "I guess it can't be helped, then."

Reyburn silently started after him as he resumed walking, easily matching the General's strides but keeping a pace or two behind him. "I hate to state the obvious," he said, resuming his usual jovial tone, "but the Shinobi are pissed as all hell. They've held out against us for this many years, and now within one year we've moved this close to their gates and are set to overtake them…I think the damn fools are really gonna give us a run for our money now."

"As far as I'm concerned," Sephiroth smirked, his vexation swiftly giving way to the camp's contagious anticipation, an anticipation he didn't even try to deny himself, "it's about time."

--------------------

"Is that all, then?"

"It better be." Cressmore slipped the signed authorization papers back into the envelope they'd arrived in. "That was certainly an unavoidable exception, but we really don't have time to make any more. With the Shinobi being as aggressive as they've been lately with their raids, that hostility will likely be tenfold in organized combat, and we can't afford to reorganize our formations."

"It's a damn shame that first bunch of assassins way back wasn't enough of a warning." Reyburn leaned back on his stool, clasping his hands behind his head.

"It was," Sephiroth reminded him. "They've just shifted their focus to simpler targets. I can't be everywhere."

"Titan's ass in a sling, wouldn't that be nice?" The brunette grinned with the madness of a naughty little boy who'd just conjured up a magnificently wicked prank.

Sephiroth managed a thin, obliging smile at the oddly-put compliment. He rose, replacing the gloves that he'd removed to sign the paperwork.

Cressmore followed him up, the workings of a frown pulling at his boyish features. It wasn't hard to tell there was something on his mind besides the impromptu squad reassignment. "Going back out to train, Sir?"

"I'd planned on." He glanced at the officer with guarded skepticism arching his silver brows. "I thought you said that was all?"

"Well, yes, it is…"

"Oh hell, Cressmore, he's not gonna stay sharp with that blade if he sits on his ass listening to you all day!"

Sephiroth donned the other wristguard, saying nothing in agreement or otherwise. What Reyburn said was true…to some extent, at least, but he honestly didn't think not training as often as he did would cause his skill to deteriorate. No, he trained because he liked the feel…the melody…of the Masamune.

And he trained so he wouldn't sit around and think himself into a fury.

He remembered that…from little on, in between those awful treatments, anytime he was coherent enough and wasn't occupied with something, he would think. Just think. About bad things, why people hated him, how horrible his life was, ways to escape that life -- and how those ways would all fail…hate, hate, hate…revenge…

…Hate them all!

"Sir?"

He looked up at Cressmore to find that the frown had finally conquered his expression.

"Are you sure you'd rather not take a break or something? You…look like you've got a lot on your mind, Sir."

Sephiroth snatched up the Masamune. "Nothing staying here would help," he retorted, leaving the tent before he got trapped there any longer.

"Damn." Reyburn leaned back even more, into a tremendous, sprawling stretch. "One thing's for sure, Cressmore, you still haven't lost your knack at pissing him off."

The blonde stared motionless after the General for a moment, mentally reassuring himself of a decision he'd wrestled with several days ago, before absentmindedly tapping the envelope that lay on the crate. "See to it someone gets these off to Hawkin," he said, already halfway outside. "He's gotta know the reassignment's legit."

Reyburn sat there a moment, visibly bewildered at Cressmore's sudden haste and departure. He picked up the envelope, examined it like it was something foreign, and threw his hands up in defeat. "Sure, why not? About all I haven't done with the damn things is sign 'em."

--------------------

"Sir!"

Sephiroth's unconsciously brisk strides didn't slow or falter when he heard the Major calling after him; inwardly, he cringed.

"Sir!" Cressmore broke into a flat run to catch up to his superior, for they were nearly to the beach and he wanted to catch him before he got involved in his practice again.

The General abruptly stopped, turning on his heel to face him. "Did you forget something?" He was beyond caring if he was being rude; Cressmore had this horrible, uncanny habit of reading into his brief, musing silences, and to say it was nerve-grating would have been like saying Ifrit's fire was hot. Recalling how angry his childhood thinking spells had gotten him had, coincidentally, soured the mood he was in now as well.

Cressmore stopped as well. "No, Sir, not really." He took a deep, solidifying breath. "And I'm not trying to be a bother, or get on your nerves any more than I already have, but…I'd like to give you something."

Sephiroth crossed his arms.

The officer produced a single, tired green orb from his breast pocket and proffered it in an open palm. "A gift, Sir…if you'll take it."

(You've got to be kidding.)

"I hardly think this is an ideal time to be giving your materia away, Major, not to mention I…"

"…Really don't need it, I know," he conceded. "With swordsmanship like yours, it's nothing you really need to rely on. I've seen you use spells, so I know you use it, but…this…this materia's never been used. And I'm sure you'll think I'm telling you a story, but I don't even know what kind it is."

Sephiroth had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes in disbelief. "It isn't Company-issue then, I take it?" He hoped he at least sounded interested, because he just knew his expression indicated otherwise.

"No." The blonde flashed a small smile. "It's a good luck charm. My older sister gave it to me when I joined the military. She'd never tell me where she'd gotten it, even though I asked several times…she just said it was useless and would just be something from home for me to hang onto wherever I got stationed."

"If you're going out on the field tomorrow, I think you need the luck a lot more than I do."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Sir," Cressmore replied, a thin smile creasing his lips.

The General shifted his weight to one foot and uncrossed his arms, draping one hand over the Masamune's hilt.

"I know what you mean, Sir," the officer continued, knowing the mercurial General wasn't much for small talk, "and you're absolutely right, I do. For as seldom as I actually wield a blade instead of a pen, I need any divine help or luck I can get. But you're a lot more important to this battle than I am, and…" He swallowed hard, nerves getting the better of him and momentarily stealing his words. "…Hell, I don't know how else to say it, Sir…it would just mean a lot to me if you'd take it." Golden brows furrowed. "And…forgive me, Sir, but I think it would mean a lot to you, too."

Sephiroth visibly bristled at that. His irritation instantly billowed into anger. "Major Cressmore, what in the hell makes you think you're in any kind of position to make an assumption like that?"

"I…can't say, Sir. Not because I don't know, but because if I do, I know you won't take it."

"I never said I'd take it at all, Major. Why would that make any difference?"

"I can't say that, either, Sir."

"As long-winded as you are at all the tactical meetings, now you're at a loss for words?" He knew that question cut deep when Cressmore's face flushed and his eyes flashed downward.

The Major slowly closed his fingers around the materia and lowered his arm.

"Are you done, then?" Sephiroth snapped.

With a sudden muster of will, Cressmore looked him square in the eye. "No, Sir, I'm not." He held the materia out again. "And I know you'll take this because if you'd really planned on not, you would have refused it and dealt with me already for even asking like I did." The resolve in his voice was firm and more than a little surprising. His cerulean eyes shone electric. "I'm giving this to you because, like it or not, Sir, I know you don't have anyone back home who'd care enough to do anything like this for you."

In the back of his mind, Sephiroth could have sworn he heard faint female shrieking, but he paid it no mind. He was so far beyond livid he doubted there was a word to even describe it.

The blonde watched Sephiroth's viridescent eyes go cold…murderously cold. It was almost the look he'd seen when he'd asked him about Bailey, when…the General…hadn't been himself, and nearly killed him. Vacant.

But whatever had come over him before had…wholly done so. He hadn't even appeared human. Now…though that same thing had come over him, he could see that Sephiroth was still there, still tempering it. His fury was showing, too.

Which, oddly enough, was why this time, it wasn't as alarming.

"Sir, I apologize if I'm upsetting you, but I'm not taking no for an answer on this one. I made up my mind on this several days ago, and I won't change my decision."

"Not even if I order you to?" Sephiroth replied, his voice gone as cold as his eyes.

"Not even if you order me to. Whether you reciprocate it or not, I consider you a friend, and that's how I'm giving this -- this materia that my sister gave me, that I've held onto for years -- to you. As a friend."

Friend? You don't…

"I don't need a friend, Major."

(That's not…)

"Then take it in whatever spirit you like, Sir, but I'm not keeping this materia." In a spur of courage, the Major closed the small gap between them, caught up Sephiroth's hand, and pressed the tiny emerald globe into his palm. "I'm sorry, Sir."

He certainly will be when you…

(I…will…)

Despite his furor and resistance, despite _her_ tenacity…for reasons he couldn't discern…he let his fingers curl around the materia.

You damn fool of a child! You're going to let him think…

(Go to hell!)

Though the General's anger hadn't diffused in the least, that measure of inhumanity in his Mako orbs faded, leaving behind only the luster of his personal ire.

And he'd accepted the materia.

Cressmore allowed himself a faint, knowing smile. "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that."

(Damn him anyway. It's almost like…what Hojo did…)

That drove his fury back into sheer, unadulterated resentment. Resentment not unlike what had driven him to make simultaneous first attempts at suicide and murder.

Sephiroth deftly snapped the materia into one of the vacant slots on the Masamune's hilt. "Is that all, Major?"

The Major nodded and stepped back, offering a full and formal salute. "Of course, Sir."

"Good," he muttered, already resuming his walk. Now he had a third excuse to practice; besides weaving the great katana's familiar silver melody and not letting himself get mired in thought, he now had to work off rekindled hostility toward that conniving, weasel-eyed waste of air back in Midgar.

(Damn you, too.)

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A/N: …And there's the long-awaited, terribly unexciting update. ;The next chapter (or two) should be _much_ quicker in coming than this one, since it's well on its way to completion.

Many thanks to whoever had the patience to wait for _this_ update.


	19. Demons

A/N: Ooh, look! It's an update bonanza! It's a distortion in the space-time continuum! It's a blue moon! Two updates within two weeks!

…You may put away your large author-whacking sticks now. ;

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They were so close now, right at his feet. He could even hear them, feel them…like a wretched, insurmountable poison. All this time…all these years…they'd held that poison at bay, away from the grand capital that stood as the very heart of the only country Shinra had yet to overwhelm and taint.

But now, one man -- the very same man Hottori had insisted was little more than a brazen insult on the Company's behalf -- had changed all that.

And what had that confidence gotten Hottori?

Death, along with the rest of his soldiers, cut down in one of the 'insult's' infamous solo endeavors.

That 'insult' had now gotten the bulk of Shinra's forces within easy attacking distance as well.

Awhite-haired _oni_ wielding the Demon Sword of legend, clad in black, with cat-like verdant eyes that could supposedly assume the ominous glow of white-hot hellfire. Some of the more skilled and observant scouts even swore up and down that despite this young man's unique coloring, his features had a vague Wutaian set to them.

To which he had simply sworn a fierce oath in response -- there was no way anyone who had such an unnatural…demonic…appearance was or ever had been a part of Wutai. He had, at the time, even gone so far as to say that some 'creature' like that had to have been won by the Shinra hounds through a dark deal with some cruel-humored devil.

Godo Kisaragi, his expression as hard-set as the age-old auburn cliffs of Da-Chao, stood on the uppermost floor of Wutai's central pagoda, somberly observing the activity below through a space left by two parted decorative panels. The wan sunlight that filtered in only encouraged his war-soured mood, for even it seemed to understand the gravity of the situation he was in.

"Lord Kisaragi!"

At the sudden call and rush of harried, encroaching footsteps, the stern Wutaian lord turned to watch a breathless youth, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, careen around the final corner of the staircase, pause briefly at the open threshold to offer hasty respects, and practically leap halfway across the room.

"Lord Kisaragi, I bring spectacular news!" The boy's words were strained with exertion; he had come from some distance away, racing as fast as his legs would carry him.

"You are a scout, that I can tell," Godo remarked off-handedly, not bothering to ask his name. "Who commands you?"

"Commander Kaizen of the Lower Western Province, Lord Kisaragi."

"Kaizen…I see. Tell me, then, scout…what is your spectacular news?"

"Commander Kaizen has just formulated an ingenious plan to route over half of Shinra's main SOLDIER contingent, and…!"

"…I suggest that plan go no further than his mind."

His enthusiasm was crushed; the boy bobbled back in surprise. "Lord Kisaragi?"

"Kaizen is not to deviate one iota from the set plans. The formation and strategy he was given will stand, unless he wishes to lose even more of his men than he has to."

"But…his plan is foolproof, Lord Kisaragi," the boy insisted, "and I haven't even explained it yet. I don't understand why…"

"Nothing is foolproof when it involves Shinra!" Godo barked. "Especially now with their devil-child of a general making fools of all of us!"

The bewildered scout was at a loss for words.

"He has wreaked more havoc in his short time here than the whole army has since this war began! Mighty Wutai is being trounced by the wiles of a hell-born, Company-bred child, and I am tired of it!"

"Then…forgive me, Lord, but do you have something in mind already?"

Godo fixed his gaze on a simple gold pedestal nearby; a single, fiery orb lay upon it. The pale sunlight gave it an eerie, sanguine aura. Without anything being said, the scout knew exactly what that materia was…and had a gnawing suspicion he knew what was to be done with it.

"I will summon Leviathan."

Exactly the words he didn't want to hear.

"Lord Kisaragi!" The blood drained from the youth's face. "You…you can't be serious!"

"Oh, I am quite serious." He wasn't even angry that his decision had just been questioned; no, that decision had been too hard-won, and he couldn't allow even a split second of indecision or distraction to sway him.

"But Lord Kisaragi…that will kill many of our own forces as well! You would be willing to…"

"…Sacrifice their lives? Yes. I would rather sacrifice their lives so those left can live in a free Wutai, then not and let us all live in a defeated Wutai." Godo turned away to look out over the Shinra-riddled plains below, his expression grim. "It was not a decision made on a whim, and if the gods require that I spend my afterlife paying for the lives lost under Leviathan's swell, then so be it, for in this life I will not allow those vermin to infest my country without a valiant fight."

"Summoning Leviathan isn't valiant, Lord!"

"I do what I must!" The Wutaian lord glanced over his shoulder at the mortified scout. "Let anyone think of it what they will; I will not simply sit here and watch while they overrun my Wutai! It is high time that demon child of a leader they have be crushed."

"Why was he not stopped before?" the youth pleaded, his voice thin and plaintive. "Could…could Leviathan have not been summoned at a more opportune time, when there weren't so many Shinobi in its path? What about that SOL…"

"Enough." Godo slowly drew the crimson materia from its pedestal. "I will summon the Sea Lord tomorrow at dawn, when the Shinra dogs attack. And no one is to know about this, for I will not have my Shinobi displaying any cowardice in the face of death before me or one of their gods. You will, however, inform Commander Kaizen that he is not to deviate from the original plans. Is that clear?"

The dumbstruck youth mumbled an affirmative, bowed numbly, and backed out of the chamber. "Lord Kisaragi…doesn't have the right to abuse the Sea Lord's power like that…not for the sake of one particular man's death," he mused, plodding back down the stairs. "It's…sacrilege. And killing many Shinobi in the process…even if it is for Wutai's future…"

He lingered at the next floor, staring a long moment at the magnificent Wutaian crest emblazoned on one of the otherwise immaculate walls. He finally heaved a great sigh and continued, this time at a much quicker pace.

"A thousand extra prayers are not even enough to redeem this situation," he murmured, hastening with each step he took. "Not even close."

--------------------

The next day's gray, storm-threatened dawn found the foremost plains of Wutai awash in blue and red, colors which, as those clad in them hoped, would soon prove fatal for the nation. Waves of tight, painstakingly arranged SOLDIER and trooper formations stood poised to sweep over the matched and waiting Shinobi ranks that stood as the last barrier to their capital. The tension was tangible; many rifles and blades on either side warmed in impatient hands.

Shinra's general stood at their front lines, observing and scrutinizing, one ebon-gloved hand draped idly over the hilt of the great katana sheathed at his hip. His First Lieutenant was at his side, double-checking the functionality of his sturdy, well-used rifle. Occasionally he'd bark at some nearby overzealous trooper to pipe down and keep in line.

Navy and crimson clashing with drab and black…

Sephiroth's viridescent eyes, not yet stoked with the heat of battle-fired Mako, raked over the whole of the field, envisioning the impending clash. Everything was so precise -- the plans, the formations…even the order of retreat, if it came to that. The SOLDIERs and troopers were all as ready as they could possibly be, whether they understood the magnitude of their duty or not. The Shinobi even seemed amply prepared.

Something, just…something was amiss, though. What really bothered him about that, however, wasn't the idea that something was out of place, but the idea that the last time he'd felt anything of this sort was the time Burkell ended up trying to kill him. While having the premonition itself was fine, this was a bad place and time to be having it. Burkell's murder attempt was one thing -- a single, vengeful man with a gun, but here…there were massed Shinobi, all of them vengeful, purposeful, and most wielding more than a mere gun.

_She_ laughed -- a soft, amused, almost…pleasant…sound this time.

He scowled.

Cressmore presently joined them, a sturdy cobalt Buster Sword strapped across his back. He appeared as enthusiastic as any of the young, battle-hungry…naïve…troopers that stood in perfect, albeit restless, formation around him. Surprisingly, the Mako in his system already had his cerulean eyes set ablaze.

"Y'know, of all the weapons you could have specialized in, I never did understand why you chose one of those big bastards," Reyburn chuckled, raising the rifle for one last check on its balance. "You have got to be the last person anyone would expect to see with one of those."

Sephiroth glanced at the Major out of the corner of his eye, seeing the glint of the smoky-blue blade and reminded of how magnificently the Lieutenant General's Diamond Buster Sword had shattered. He absently wondered how easily this one would do the same.

(…And why would I care?)

"You're not the first to tell me that," Cressmore replied, his gaze drifting to the General. "The blade isn't as strong as the Lieutenant General's, and I'm nowhere as good as he is, but I can get the job done."

(You had better, because you're getting this materia back after this fight, whether you like it or not.)

"If you're half as good with that as you are with your meetings, I imagine you're quite a force to be reckoned with," Sephiroth remarked, resuming his perusal of the field.

That only garnered a good-humored chuckle out of the Major, but Reyburn let loose with a deep, genuine laugh. "Heh…he's got you there, Cressmore!"

"He certainly does." The blonde sobered; it wasn't hard to detect the faint animosity in the General's tone…not that he particularly blamed him for it. After all, what he had done with the materia should have been enough to earn him a dishonorable discharge from the military.

"Well, Sir," he continued, exhaling sharply, "I just got word from the last unit commander, and everything's in place." He paused, watching Reyburn lower his rifle and straighten to his full height. "Should we proceed?"

Without a moment's pause, Sephiroth wordlessly drew the Masamune and raised it high; even in the absence of sunlight, the great blade shone with a hue the faint silver-blue of moonlight.

The sword, as it had been for some time now, was all the signal the SOLDIERs and troopers needed.

Cressmore brought his Buster Sword to bear.

The Masamune dropped from the troops' sight, and their ebon and silver General walked forward, toward the waiting Shinobi…and the red and blue swell marched after him.

The Shinobi advanced.

--------------------

Godo, in full battle regalia, once again stood on the uppermost floor of the pagoda. He watched with increasing aggravation as the Company's foremost wave broke against the matched Shinobi. The crimson summon materia burned in his white-knuckled fist.

He heard the thunder of guns, the screeching and clanging of blades, the shouts and cries of friend and foe alike. Shinra's forces did not immediately plow through their opposition -- not yet, and they likely wouldn't, either.

Not until that thrice-damned general of theirs really got involved. Then a swath would be cut through the Wutaian ranks as if a cannon shot had ripped through them. And now, that swath would lead straight to the capital gates.

"A last resort," Godo murmured. "A tactic I had hoped would never need come to fruition. A tactic that does not bode well…for anyone here." A deep scowl, a scowl set in pure hatred, hardened his solemn features. "But Shinra and their devil child must be spared no mercy. My country hasn't yet been poisoned by them, and if my…no, our…faith in the gods holds fast…it never will be."

--------------------

One after another, Shinobi fell to the methodical dance of the Masamune.

The General, even knowing no Shinobi here could match his skill, pressed through them with careful and calculating focus. To his left, Cressmore struck down foes with a surprisingly well-handled Buster Sword, the force of the stout blade's strikes belying its wielder's svelte frame. At his right, Reyburn picked his opponents off from a distance, directing his rifle at whatever Shinobi he could get an open shot at.

And all around him his own men were cut down, shot…stolen from life with whatever weapons the Wutaians had. The continuous report of rifles formed a rolling, sonorous cacophony, punctuated by cries of death and battle fervor; blades sang and squealed, their melody interrupted only when they met flesh.

Mako ran hot in Sephiroth's veins. The Masamune felt weightless in his grasp. Despite all the Wutaians who had met their end at the great katana's merciless edge, very little blood stained the blade.

It was as if the sword -- or perhaps the one who wielded it -- was killing on sheer will alone.

Through it all, though, Sephiroth still heard _her_. That grating, derisive voice…ironically, she seemed most subdued when he was fighting, apparently content to linger at the edge of his consciousness and laugh quietly while Mako and battle sense took hold. But she was always there, always irritating and uninvited…even now.

However, this time…she may have been laughing a little louder.

But he was too intent on the task at hand to notice or care.

Sephiroth parried a charging Shinobi, bobbing out of his way and thrusting the Masamune through him as he stumbled past. He withdrew the blade as deftly as it had been driven in, snapping into a lunging silver arc in the same motion and mowing down four opponents at once. An identical backhanded motion slew the four behind them.

Some raw instinct…instinct he wasn't fully aware of, caught him up when he heard a zealous, perilously close shout. The blade still in a one-handed grip, he drove the katana back, angled to where he'd heard the cry.

The impulse had seized him for a mere heartbeat, and now released him…and it was in that second heartbeat he knew he'd made a grave mistake…even as he felt the blade drive deep into flesh.

It was no Shinobi he'd just run through.

Sephiroth pulled the Masamune free, swatted aside a trio of charging Wutaians, and whirled to face the lone victim.

Cressmore, his cerulean eyes already glassy, the expression on his face a bizarre fog of pain and bewilderment, gazed up at him. Only a tear in the fabric of his uniform marked the wound; there was no crimson blossom adorning it. The blade had found his belly, and as abrupt as the strike had been, must have run him clear through.

They both knew, in that instant, that he wasn't going back to Midgar alive.

The blonde managed to say something, and though the sound was lost in the din, Sephiroth saw him form the words.

"Sir, what…why? I…thought we…could be…"

Cressmore's Buster Sword hit the ground with a subdued, almost mournful, _thunk_.

He joined it not a second later…dead as the Wutaian body he collapsed upon.

A strange, burning chill, acidic yet numbing, flooded Sephiroth's body -- a feeling not unlike the aftereffects of an obscene dose of Mako.

(…He…thought…it was intentional…)

The raging battle around him seemed to plunge into silence.

(…Was it…?)

The only thing he heard, in the furthest depths of his mind…was malicious female laughter.

You lost that time, Sephiroth!

(…You!) His fury was so blinding, so consuming, it was all he could do to even muster such a basic retort.

You _wanted_ to kill him, Sephiroth! You wanted him dead and out of the way just like you did that officer in Midgar! The naïve little fool really believed you killed him in self-defense!

(Don't even…!)

Rage had pushed him beyond its own threshold; even the split-second pang he'd felt when he saw the Major fall was faded from memory. He couldn't even begin to rationalize anything -- not her, not Cressmore, not even his own intentions. He couldn't truly place a name on everything he was feeling.

(What…in the hell…have I…)

Sudden cries of disbelief pulled him back to the battle…to reality.

Something in the air tingled.

Keeping an almost unconscious vigilance against the still-attacking Shinobi, he looked toward the Wutaian capital.

A liquid crystal sphere shimmered to life in the sky above the field.

The energy, the insistent, escalating humming in the air…was Leviathan.

"Son of a bitch! After all this time, now he summons the bastard!" Reyburn continued unloading the rifle into whatever Shinobi he could.

(His own people…he doesn't even care who he takes out.)

The Masamune no longer sang; it screamed, fueled by its wielder's sudden, irrepressible wrath.

(Too bad I won't be among those he does.)

"Reyburn!" he bellowed, lashing into a trio of hapless Shinobi.

The brunette, standing not ten feet away and firing rounds as fast as the rifle would let him, glanced over at him. "Sir, this is some bad shit! We gotta get the hell out of here!"

"Get Cressmore and go!"

Reyburn didn't need any elaboration to know the blonde wasn't going back on his own. "Damn it all!" He dropped the now-spent rifle and in the same motion, grabbed a fresh one from a fallen SOLDIER nearby. "The one time out of how many he comes out here, and some asshole Shinobi kills him!"

Harsh female laughter grated in Sephiroth's skull. …Told you…!

(Damn you to every hell there is!)

Reyburn closed the short gap between them, knelt, and swept the blonde's body up in his free arm. He heard unit commanders and practically every other authority out here screaming for retreat, but most of the troops were well ahead of their superiors' orders, and had started out for the nearest high ground. He even noticed some of the Shinobi, clearly in a panic, running along with them, but most, apparently accepting their inevitable deaths as some significant part in a grand divine plan, fought on, either against those SOLDIERs who wouldn't accept retreat or taking their fleeing foes down with well-aimed shuriken, blades, bullets, and whatever else they had handy to throw.

"Damn it all," he hissed, joining in the en masse exodus, watching for his superior's furious and fatal sword dance to slow, for him to follow his troops.

Much to his dismay, however, he only watched as Sephiroth advanced through the sweeping melee, seemingly mindless that they were on the brink of mass annihilation. "Sir! Where the hell are you going?"

"I'm going to end this war, First Lieutenant!" he shouted over his shoulder. "I've had enough of this!"

Reyburn's heart skipped a beat. "What? Holy shit, Sir, you're not fast enough to get out of that thing's path running straight for it, and there's no way in hell you can take the brunt of that!"

The Masamune howled; Sephiroth's steps toward the well-guarded capital hastened. "No one or nothing in this country is going to defeat me, Reyburn! And that includes their petty, fabricated gods!"

"Damn it, Sir, you can't do this! It's suicide!"

"It's still just a summon creature, and it's going to take more than that to stop me."

"Sir…!"

"There's no time, Reyburn! Take Cressmore and retreat with the others. That is an order!"

Painfully aware of the General's willfulness and knowing full well no amount of his protesting was going to stop him, Reyburn resigned himself to keeping his mouth shut about his superior's actions and doing as he was ordered. "…For Shiva's sake, Sir, be careful!" he called after him, shifting Cressmore over his shoulder so he could still effectively fire the rifle if need be.

He got no response…but then, he hadn't really expected one. He watched Sephiroth disappear into the surging, chaotic fray, anger and…concern…clenching his jaw. "Damn it, all this time…am I gonna lose both of them in one damn fight?"

--------------------

The crystal sphere shattered. In its place, its scintillating serpentine form half-coiled, hovered the Sea Lord. Its diaphanous fins fluttered lazily in the now-chilled air; its tail twitched, cobra-like. It regarded the fleeing humans below with the disinterest one would expect from a summon creature...a Wutaian god.

In the blink of an eye, that disinterest changed to a glare of pure domination. Its crimson eyes lit with rage only something of its own ilk could comprehend. It fairly radiated with raw elemental energy.

Sephiroth broke free of the retreating mess of Company men and Shinobi, his blade now held idle, for no one remained in his way. Everything he had -- the immense amount of Mako surging through his blood, adrenaline, sheer will, enmity toward…everything -- was focused on a swiftness he knew he had never before managed, but was now accomplishing with barely a conscious thought.

Leviathan's great gossamer fins snapped; its azure body writhed. The air around it began to ripple with a cold, aqueous shimmer. Searing scarlet eyes swept over the scrambling masses below…and focused on a lone black and silver form running the opposite way as all the rest.

Its powerful maw yawned wide in a shrill, haunting howl. An angry blue torrent of water rose behind it, rolling and roaring into an aquatic wall, reaching heights well above the earth it was about to engulf.

The Masamune clenched in one painfully tight fist, Sephiroth glared up defiantly at the enraged serpent, his eyes hot with a feral verdant glow. Mako, and some intangible swell of strength within him, had pushed him even beyond recognition of his own motion and speed. The massive tidal wave barring his path, the wave that would overwhelm him in a matter of seconds…meant as little to him as the summoned serpent who'd conjured it.

(Scream at me, you bastard. Go ahead. Do what you must, but this ends right…damn…now!)

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A/N: Oh hey, wasn't that fun? I gave you a cliffhanger and everything. ;o)

In regards to why the last update was so freakishly long in coming…let's just say it was primarily due to an evil, evil college/work schedule and the fact that pretty much all of my creativity was funneled into said schedule. I wouldn't make you wait that long on purpose, 'cause that's just plain mean.


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